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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 18T>2, by 


in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massa- 

I'uir, raity Pn m .* 

Welch, Bigelow, ;ui<l Company 

Oambridffi . 


AY, blame mc not ; I might have spared 
Your patience many a trivial verse, 
Yet these my earlier welcome shared, 
Sq, let the better shield the worse. 

And some might say, " Those ruder song 
Had freshness which the new have lost ; 

To spring the opening leaf belongs, 
The chestnut-burs await the frost." 

When those I wrote, my locks were brown, 
When these I write — ah, wcll-a-day ! 

The autumn thistle's silvery down 
Is not the purple bloom of May ! 

Go, little book, whose pages hold 

Those garnered years in loving trust ; 

How long before your blue and gold 
Shall fade and whiten in the d 


sexton of the alcoved tomb, 

AVJicre souls in leathern eerements lie, 
Tell me each living poet's doom ! 
How long before his book shall die ? 

It matters little, soon or late, 

A day, a month, a year, an age, — 

1 read oblivion in its date, 

And Finis on its title-page. 

Before we sighed, our griefs were told ; 

Before we smiled, our joys were sung ; 
And all our passions shaped of old 

In accents lost to mortal tongue. 

In vain a fresher mould we seek, — 
Can all the varied phrases tell 

That Babel's wandering children speak 
How thrushes sing or lilacs smell ? 

Caged in the poet's lonely heart, 

Love wastes unheard its tenderest tone ; 

The soul that sings must dwell apart, 
Its inward melodies unknown. 

Deal gently with us, ye who read ! 

Our largest hope is unfulfilled,— 
The promise still outruns the deed, — 

The tower, but uol the Bpire, we build. 


Our whitest pearl we never find ; 

Our ripest fruit we never reach ; 
The flowering moments of the mind 

Drop half their petals in our speech. 

These are my blossoms ; if they wear 
One streak of morn or evening's glow, 

Accept them ; but to me more fair 
The buds of song that never blow. 

April 8, 1862. 

a * 


OETRY: a Metrical Essay 
Cambridge Churchyard 
Old Ironsides 

Miscellaneous Poems 

The Last Reader 
Our Yankee Girl3 

La Grisette 

An Evening Thought 

A Souvenir 

" Qui Yive ! " . 

The TYasp and the Hornet 

From a Bachelor's Private Journal 


The Philosopher to his Love 

L'Inconnue .... 

The Star and the Water-Lily 

Illustration of a Picture 

The Dying Seneca 

A Portrait 

A Roman Aqueduct 

The Last Prophecy of Cassandra 

To a Caged Lion .... 

To my Companions . 

The Last Leaf .... 

To a Blank Sheet of Paper 

To an Insect .... 




























The Dilemma 

My Aunt 

The Toadstool 

The Meeting of the Dryads 

The Mysterious Visitor . 

The Spectre Pig .... 

Lines by a Clerk .... 

Reflections of a Proud Pedestrian 

The Poet's Lot .... 

Daily Trials 

Evening. — By a Tailor 
The Dorchester Giant .... 
To the Portrait of " A Gentleman " 
To the Portrait of " A Lady » 

The Comet 

A Noontide Lyric .... 

The Ballad of the Oysterman . 

The Music-Grinders .... 

The Treadmill Song 

The September Gale . 

The Height of the Ridiculous 

The Hot Season 

Departed Days .... 

The Steamboat 

The Parting Word .... 


Lines recited at the Berkshire Festival 
Verses for After-Dinner 


The Only Daughter .... 
Lexington ..... 
The Island Hunting- Song . 
Questions and Answers . 



Urania : a Rhymed Lesson . 
The Pilgrim's Vision 


A Modest Request 167 

Nux Postcoenatica 174 

On Lending a Punch-Bowl 179 

The Stethoscope Song 182 

Extracts from a Medical Poem . . . 186 

A Song of Other Days 188 

A Sentiment 190 

Soxgs ix Many Keys. 

Agnes . . . . 197 

The Ploughmau 219 

A Poem for the Dedication of the Pittsfield Cemetery 221 

Pictures from Occasional Poems . . . 225 

To Governor Swain 264 

To an English Friend 266 

Tignettes 267 

A Poem for the Meeting of the American Medical 

Association 278 

The New Eden 281 

A Sentiment 286 

Semicentennial Celebration of the New England 

Society 287 

Ode for Washington's Birthday .... 289 

Class of '29 291 

For the Meeting of the Burns Club . 292 

For the Burns Centennial Celebration . 294 

Birthday of Daniel Webster 296 

Meeting of the Alumni of Harvard College . 299 

The Parting Song 304 

Boston Common. — Three Pictures . 305 

Latter-Day Warnings 307 

Prologue ........ 308 

The Old Man of the Sea 311 

Ode for a Social Meeting, with Slight Alterations 

by a Teetotaler 313 

The Deacon's Masterpiece : or the Wonderful u One- 

Hoss Shay" 314 



Contentment .... 

Parson TurelPs Legacy . 

De Sauty . 

The Old Man dreams 

Mare Rubrum .... 

What wo all Think .... 

Spring has come .... 

A Good Time going! 

The Last Blossom 

" The Boys " . . 

The Opening of the Piano . 
Midsummer ..... 
A Parting Health. To J. L Motley 
A Good-by. To J. R, Lowell . 
At a Birthday Festival. To J 
A Birthday Tribute. To J. F. 

The Gray Chief 

The Last Look 

In Memory of Charles Wentworth Upham, Junior 


Sun and Shadow 

The Chambered Nautilus 

The Two Armies . 

R. Lowell 
Clarke . 

For the Meeting of the National Sanitary 
ciation ..... 


The Voiceless 

The Crooked Footpath 
The Two Streams . 
Robinson of Leyden 
St. Anthony the Reformer 


Iris, her Book 

Under the Violets .... 

The Promise 

The Living Temple ... 






























Hymn of Trust 382 

A Sun-Day Hymn 382 

A Voice of the Loyal North .... 383 

Brother Jonathan's Lament for Sister Caroline 385 

Under the Washington Elm, Cambridge . . 387 

International 0<le 388 

Freedom, our Queen 389 

Army Hymn ........ 390 

Parting Hymn 391 

The Flower of Liberty ...... 392 

The Sweet Little Man 393 

Vivo la France ! . . 7 396 

Voyage of the Good Ship Union . . 398 

Union and Liberty 401 













CENES of my youth ! ' awake its slum- 
bering fire ! 
Ye winds of Memory, sweep the silent 
lyre ! 

Ray of the past, if yet thou canst appear, 
Break through the clouds of Fancy's waning year 
Chase from her breast the thin autumnal snow, 
If leaf or blossom still is fresh below ! 

Long have I wandered ; the returning tide 
Brought back an exile to his cradle's side ; 
And as my bark her time-worn flag unrolled, 
To greet the land-breeze with its faded fold, 
So, in remembrance of my boyhood's time, 
I lift these ensigns of neglected rhyme ; — 
O more than blest, that, all my wanderings through, 
My anchor falls where first my pennons flew ! 

The morning light, which rains its quivering 
Wide o'er the plains, the summits, and the streams, 


In one broad blaze expands its golden glow 

On all that answers to its glance below; 
Yet, changed on earth, each far reflected ray 
Braids with fresh hues the shining brow of day; 
Now, clothed in blushes by the painted flowers, 
Tracks on their cheeks the rosy-tinge red hours ; 
Now, lost in shades, whose dark entangled leaves 
Drip at the noontide from their pendent eaves, 
Fades into gloom, or gleams in light again 
From every dew-drop on the jewelled plain. 

We, like the leaf, the summit, or the wave, 
Reflect the light our common nature gave, 

But every sunbeam, foiling from her throne, 
Wears on our hearts some coloring of our own ; 
Chilled in the slave, and burning in the free, 
Like the sealed cavern by the sparkling sea; 
Lost, like the lightning in the sullen clod, 
Or shedding radiance, like the smiles of God, 
Pure, pale in Virtue, as the star above, 
Or quivering roseate on the leaves of Love ; 
Glaring like noontide, where it glows upon 
Ambition's sands, — the desert in the sun ; 
Or soft suffusing o'er the varied scene 
Life's common coloring, — intellectual green. 

Thus Heaven, repeating its material plan, 
Arched over all the rainbow mind of man ; 
But he, who, blind to universal laws, 
Sees but effects, unconscious of their cause, — 
Believes each image in itself is bright, 
Not robed in drapery of reflected light, — 
Is like the rustic, who, amidst his toil, 
Has found some crystal in his meagre soil, 


And, Inst in rapture, thinks for him alone 
Earth worked her wonders on the sparkling stone, 
Nor dreams that Nature, with as nice a line, 
Carved countless angles through the boundless 


Thus err the many, who, entranced to find 
Unwonted lustre in Borne clearer mind, 
Believe that Genius sets the laws at naught 
Which chain the pinions of our wildest thought : 
Untaught to measure, with the eye of art, 
The wandering fancy or the wayward heart ; 
Who match the little only with the less, 
And gaze in rapture at its slight excess, 
Proud of a pebble, as the brightest gem 
Whose light might crown an emperor's diadem. 

And, most of all, the pure ethereal fire, 
Which Beems to radiate from the poet's lyre, 
Is to the world a mystery and a charm, 
An A\/\* wielded on a mortal's arm, 
While Reason turns her dazzled eye away, 
And hows her sceptre to her subject's sway: 
And thus the poet, clothed with godlike state, 
Usurped his Maker's title — to create ; 
He, whose thoughts differing not in shape, hut 

What others feel, more fitly can express, 
Sits like the maniac on his fancied throne, 
Peeps through the bars, and calls the world his own. 

There breathe- no being hut has some pretence 
To that fine instinct called poetic sense; 
The rudest savage roaming through the wild. 


The simplest rustic, bending o'er his child, 
The infant listening to the warbling bird, 
The mother smiling at its half-formed word ; 
The boy uncaged, who tracks the fields at large, 
The girl, turned matron to her babe-like charge ; 
The freeman, casting with unpurchased hand 
The vote that shakes the turrets of the land ; 
The slave, who, slumbering on his rusted chain, 
Dreams of the palm-trees on his burning plain ; 
The hot-cheeked reveller, tossing down the wine, 
To join the chorus pealing "Auld lang sync"; 
The gentle maid, whose azure eye grows dim, 
While Heaven is listening to her evening hymn ; 
The jewelled beauty,, when her steps draw near 
The circling dance and dazzling chandelier ; 
E'en trembling age, when Spring's renewing air 
Waves the thin ringlets of his silvered hair ; — 
All, all are glowing with the inward flame, 
Whose wider halo wreathes the poet's name, 
While, unembalmed, the silent dreamer dies. 
His memory passing with his smiles and sighs ! 

If glorious visions, horn for all mankind, 
The bright auroras of our twilight mind ; 
If fancies, varying as the shapes that lie 
Stained on the windows of the sunset sky ; 
If hopes, that beckon with delusive gleams. 
Till the eye dances in the void of dreams ; 
If passions, following with the winds that urge 
Earth's wildest wanderer to her farthest verge ; — 
If these on all some transient hours bestow 
Of rapture tingling with its hectic glow, 
Then all are poets ; and, if earth had rolled 
Her myriad centuries, and her doom were told, 

A METRICAL E88A )'. 9 

Each moaning billow of her shoreless wave 
Would wail its requiem o'er a poet's .-rave ! 

If to embody in a breathing word 
Tones that the spirit trembled when it heard ; 
To fix the image all unveiled and warm, 
And carve in language its ethereal form, 
So pure, so perfect, that the lines express 
No meagre shrinking, no unlaced excess ; 
To feel that art, in living truth, has taught 
Ourselves, reflected in the sculptured thought ; — 
If this alone bestow the right to claim 
The deathless garland and the Bacred name ; 
Then none arc poets, save the saints on high, 
AVhu>e harps can murmur all that words deny ! 

But though to none is granted to reveal, 
In perfect Bemblance, all that each may feel, 
As withered flowers recall forgotten love, 

So, warmed to life, our faded passions move 
In every line, where kindling fancy throws 
The -learn of pleasures, or the shade of woes. 

When, schooled by time, the stately queen of art 
Had smoothed the pathways leading to the heart, 
Assumed her measured tread, her solemn tone, 
And round her courts the clouds of fable thrown, 
The wreaths of heaven descended on her shrine, 
And wondering earth proclaimed the Muse divine. 
Yet, if her notaries had hut dared profane 
The mystic Bymbols of her sacred reign, 
How had they smiled beneath the veil to find 
What slender threads can chain the mighty mind ! 


Poets, like painters, their machinery claim, 
And verso bestows the varnish and the frame; 
Our grating English, whose Teutonic jar 
Shakes the racked axle of Art's rattling- ear, 
Fits like mosaic in the lines that gird 
Fast in its place each many-angled word ; 
From Saxon lips Anacreon's numbers glide, 
As once they melted on the Teian tide, 
And, fresh transfused, the Iliad thrills again 
From Alhion's cliffs as o'er Aehaia's plain ! 
The proud heroic, with its pulse-like heat, 
Rings like the cymbals clashing U s they meet ; 
The sweet Spenserian, gathering as it flows, 
Sweeps gently onward to its dying close, 
Where wares on waves in long succession pour, 
Till the ninth billow melts along the shore ; 
The lonely spirit of the mournful lay, 
Which lives immortal as the verse of Gray, 
In sahle plumage slowly drifts along, 
On eagle pinion, through the air of song; 
The glittering lyric hounds clastic by, 
With flashing ringlets and exulting eye, 
While every image, in her airy whirl, 
Gleams like a diamond on a dancing girl ! 2 

Born with mankind, with man's expanded range 
And varying fates the poet's numbers change; 
Thus in his history may we hope to find 
Some clearer epochs of the poet's mind, 
As from the cradle of its birth we trace, 
Slow wandering forth, the patriarchal race. 



When the green earth, beneath the zephyr's wing, 
Wears on her breast the varnished buds of Spring; 
When the Loosed current, as its folds uncoil, 
Slides in the channels of the mellowed soil ; 
When the young hyacinth returns to seek 
The air and sunshine with her emerald beak ; 
When the light snowdrops, Btarting from their cells, 
Hang each pagoda with its silver bells ; 
When the frail willow twines her trailing bow 
With pallid leaves that sweep the soil below ; 
When the broad elm, sole empress of the plain, 
Whose circling shadow speaks a century's rei^n, 
Wreathes in the clouds her regal diadem, — 
A forest waving on a single stem ; — 
Then mark the poet ; though to him unknown 
The quaint-mouthed titles, such as scholars own, 
Bee how his eye in ecstasy pursues 
The steps of Nature tracked in radiant hues ; 
Nay, in thyself, whate'er may be thy fate, 
Pallid with toil, or surfeited with state, 
Mark how thy fancies, with the vernal rose, 
Awake, all sweetness, from their Long repose ; 
Then turn to ponder o'er the classic page, 
Traced with the idyls of a greener age, 
And learn the instinct which arose to warm 
Art's earliest essay, and her simplest form. 

T<> themes like these her narrow path confined 
The first-born impulse moving in the mind; 
In vales unshaken by the trumpet's Bound, 
Where peaceful Labor tills his fertile ground, 


The silent changes of the rolling years, 
Marked on the soil, or dialled on the spheres, 
The crested forests and the colored flowers, 
The dewy grottos and the blushing bowers, 
These, and their guardians, who, with liquid names, 
Strephons and Chloes, melt in mutual flames, 
Woo the young Muses from their mountain shade, 
To make Arcadia* in the lonely glade. 

Nor think they visit only with their smiles 
The fabled valleys and Elysian isles ; 
He who is wearied of his village plain 
May roam the Edens of the world in vain. 
'T is not the star-crowned cliff, the cataract's flow, 
The softer foliage, or the greener glow, 
The lake of sapphire, or the spar-hung cave, 
The brighter sunset, or the broader wave, 
Can warm his heart whom every wind has blown 
To every shore, forgetful of his own. 

Home of our childhood ! how affection clings 
And hovers round thee with her seraph wings ! 
Dearer thy hills, though clad in autumn brown, 
Than fairest summits which the cedars crown ! 
Sweeter the fragrance of thy summer breeze 
Than all Arabia breathes along the seas ! 
The stranger's gale wafts home the exile's sigh, 
For the heart's temple is its own blue sky ! 

O happiest they, whose early love unchanged, 
Hopes undissolved, and friendship nnestranged, 
Tired of their wanderings, strll can deign to see 
Love, hopes, and friendship, centering all in thee I 


And thou, my village ! as again I tread 

Amidst thy living, and above thy dead ; 

Though some fair playmates guard with chaster 

Their cheeks, grown holy with the lapse of years ; 
Though with the dust some reverend locks may 

Where life's last mile-stone marks the journey's 

end ; 
On every hud the changing year recalls, 
The brightening glance of morning memory falls, 
Still following onward as the months unclose 
The balmy lilac or the bridal rose ; 
And still shall follow, till they sink once more 
Beneath the snow-drifts of the frozen shore, 
As when my bark, long tossing in the gale, 
Furled in her port her tempest-rended sail ! 

What shall I give thee ? Can a simple lay, 
Flung on thy bosom like a girl's bouquet, 
Do more than deck thee for an idle hour, 
Then fall unheeded, fading like the flower ? 
Yet, when I trod, with footsteps wild and free, 
The crackling leaves beneath yon linden-tree, 
Panting from play, or dripping from the stream, 
How bright the visions of my boyish dream ! 
Or, modest Charles, along thy broken edge, 
Black with soft ooze and fringed with arrowy sedge, 
As once I wandered in the morning sun, 
With reeking sandal and superfluous gun; 
How oft, as Fancy whispered in the gale, 
Thou wast the Avon of her flattering tale ! 
Ye hills, whose foliage, fretted on the skies, 
Prints shadowy arches on their evening dyes, 

i 4 POETRY: 

How should my song with holiest charm invest 
Each dark ravine and forest-lifting- crest ! 
How clothe in beauty each familiar scene, 
Till all was classic on my native green ! 

As the drained fountain, filled with autumn 
The field swept naked of its garnered sheaves ; 
So wastes at noon the promise of our dawn, 
The springs all choking, and the harvest gone. 

Yet hear the lay of one whose natal star 
Still seemed the brightest when it shone afar ; 
Whose cheek, grown pallid with ungracious toil, 
Glows in the welcome of his parent soil ; 
And ask no garlands sought beyond the tide, 
But take the leaflets gathered at your side. 

Our ancient church ! its lowly tower, 

Beneath the loftier spire, 
Is shadowed when the sunset hour 

Clothes the tall shaft in fire ; 
It sinks beyond the distant eye, 

Long ere the glittering vane, 
High wheeling in the western sky, 

Has faded o'er the plain. 

Like Sentinel and Nun, they keep 
Their vigil on the green ; 

One seems to guard, and one to weep, 
The dead that lie between ; 


And both roll out, so full and near, 
Their music's mingling waves, 

They shake the grass, whose pennoncd spear 
Leans on the narrow graves. 

The stranger parts the flaunting weeds, 

Whose seeds the winds have strown 
So thick beneath the line he reads, 

They shade the sculptured stone ; 
The child unveils his clustered brow, 

And ponders for a while 
The graven willow's pendent bough, 

Or rudest cherub's smile. 

But what to them the dirge, the knell 1 

These were the mourner's share ; — 
The sullen clang, whose heavy swell 

Throbbed through the beating air ; — 
The rattling cord, — the rolling stone, — 

The shelving sand that slid, 
And, far beneath, with hollow tone, 

Rung on the coffin's lid. 

The slumberer's mound grows fresh and green, 

Then slowly disappears ; 
The mosses creep, the gray stones lean, 

Earth hides his date and years ; 
But, long before the once-loved name 

Is sunk or worn away, 
No lip the silent dust may claim, 

That pressed the breathing clay. 

Go where the ancient pathway guides, 
See where our sires laid down 

1 6 POETRY: 

Their smiling babes, their cherished brides, 
The patriarchs of the town ; 

Hast thou a tear for buried love ? 
A sigh for transient power \ 

All that a century left above, 
Go, read it in an hour ! 

The Indian's shaft, the Briton's ball, 
The sabre's thirsting edge, 

The hot shell, shattering in its fall, 
The bayonet's rending wedge, — 

Here scattered death ; yet, seek the spot, 
No trace thine eye can see, 

No altar, — and they need it not 
Who leave their children free ! 

Look where the turbid rain-drops stand 

In many a chiselled square, 
The knightly crest, the shield, the brand 

Of honored names were there ; — 
Alas ! for every tear is dried 

Those blazoned tablets knew, 
Save when the icy marble's side 

Drips with the evening dew. 

Or gaze upon yon pillared stone, 3 

The empty urn of pride ; 
There stand the Goblet and the Sun,— 

What need of more beside ! 
Where lives the memory of the dead, 

Who made their tomb a toy ! 
Whose ashes press that nameless bed ' 

Go, ask the village bov ! 


Lean o'er the slender western wall, 

Ye ever-roaming girls ; 
The breath that bids the blossom fall 

May lift your floating curls, 
To sweep the simple lines that tell 

An exile's date and doom ; 
And Bigh, for where his daughters dwell, 

They wreathe the stranger's tomb. 

And one amid these shades was born, 

Beneath this turf who lies, 
Once beaming as the summer's morn, 

That closed her gentle eyes ; — 
If sinless angels love as we, 

AVho stood thy grave beside, 
Three seraph welcomes waited thee, 

The daughter, sister, bride ! 

I wandered to thy buried mound 

When earth was hid below 
The level of the glaring ground, 

( 'hoked to its gates with snow, 
And when with summer's flowery waves 

The lake of verdure rolled, 
As if a Sultan's white-robed slaves 

Had scattered pearls and gold. 

Nay, the soft pinions of the air, 
That lift this trembling tone, 

Its breath of love may almost bear, 
To kiss thy funeral stone ; — 

And, now thy smiles have passed away. 
For all the joy they gave, 


1 8 POETRY: 

May sweetest <le\v> and warmest raj 

Lie on thine- early grave I 

When damps beneath, and storms above, 

Save bowed these fragile towers, 
Still o'er the graves yon locust-grove 

Shall swing its Orient flowers ; — 
And I would ask no mouldering bust, 

If e'er tins humble line, 
Which breathed a sigh o'er other's dust, 

Might call a tear on mine. 


But times were changed ; the torch of terror came, 
To light the summits with the beacon's flame ; 
The streams ran crimson, the tall mountain pines 
Rose a new forest o'er embattled lines ; 
The bloodless sickle lent the warrior's steel, 
The harvest bowed beneath his chariot wheel ; 
Where late the wood-dove sheltered her repose 
The raven waited for the conflict's close; 
The cuirassed sentry walked his sleepless round 
Where Daphne smiled or Amaryllis frowned ; 
Where timid minstrels sung their blushing charms, 
Some wild Tyrtseus called aloud, " To arms ! " 

When Glory wakes, when fiery spirits leap, 
Roused by her accents from their tranquil sleep. 
The ray that Hashes from the soldier's crest 
Lights, as it glances, in the poet's breasl ; — 


Not in pale dreamers, whose fantastic lay 
Toys with Bmooth trifles like a child at play, 
But men, who act the passions they inspire, 
Who wave the sabre as they Bweep the lyre ! 

Ye mild enthusiasts, whose pacific frowns 
Are lost like dew-drops caught in burning towns, 
Pluck as ye will the radiant plumes of fame, 
Break Caesar's bust to make yourselves a name; 
But, if your country bares the avenger's blade 
For wrongs unpunished, or for debts unpaid, 
When the roused nation bids her armies form, 
And screams her eagle through the gathering storm, 
When from your ports the bannered frigate rides, 
Her black bows scowling to the crested tides, 
Your hour has past; in vain your feeble cry, 
As the babe's wailings to the thundering sky I 

Scourge of mankind ! with all the dread array 
That wraps in wrath. thy desolating way, 
As the wild tempest wakes the slumbering sea, 
Thou only teachest all that man can be. 
Alike thy tocsin has the power to charm 
The toil-knit sinews of the rustic's arm, 
Or swell the pulses in the poet's veins, 
And bid the nations tremble at his strains. 

The city slept beneath the moonbeam's glance, 
Her white walls gleaming through the vines of 

And all was hushed, save where the footsteps fell, 
On some high tower, of midnight sentinel. 
But one still watched; no self-encircled woes 
Chased from his lids the angel of repose ; 

2 o POETRY: 

He watched, lie wept, for thoughts of bitter years 
Bowed his dark lashes, wet with burning tears : 

His country's sufferings and her children's shame 
Streamed o'er his memory like a forest's flame, • 
Each treasured insult, each remembered wrong, 
Rolled through his heart and kindled into song : 
His taper faded ; and the morning gales 
Swept through the world the war-song of Marseilles 1 4 

Now, while around the smiles of Peace expand. 
And Plenty's wreaths festoon the laughing land; 
While France ships outward her reluctant ore, 
And half our navy basks upon the shore ; 
From ruder themes our meek-eyed Muses turn 
To crown with roses their enamelled urn. 

If e'er again return those awful days 
Whose clouds were crimsoned with the beacon's 

Whose grass was trampled by the soldier's heel, 
Whose tides were reddened round the rushing keel, 
God grant some lyre may wake a nobler strain 
To rend the silence of our tented plain ! 
When Gallia's flag its triple fold displays, 
Her marshalled legions peal the Marseillaise ; 
When round the German close the war-clouds dim, 
Far through their shadows floats his battle-hymn; 
When, crowned with joy, the camps of England ring, 
A thousand voices shout, "God save the King! " 
When victory follows with our eagle's glance, 
Our nation's anthem is a country dance 

Some prouder muse, when comes the hour at last, 
May shake our hill-sides with her bugle-blasJ ; 


Not ours the ta>k ; but since the lyric dress 

Relieves the statelier with its Bprightliness, 

Bear an old song, which some, perchance, liavc 

In stale gazette, or cobwebbed magazine. 
There was an hour when patriots dared profane 
The mast that Britain strove to bow in vain ; G 
And one, who listened to the tale of shame, 
Whose heart still answered to that sacred name, 
Whose eve still followed o'er his country's tides 
Thy glorious flag, our brave Old Ironsides ! 
From yon lone attic, on a summer's morn, 
Thus mocked the spoilers witli his school-boy scorn. 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 

Long has it waved on high, 
And many an eye has danced to sec 

That banner in the sky ; 
Beneath it rung the battle shout, 

And burst the cannon's roar ; — 
The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more ! 

H6r deck, once red with heroes' blood, 

Where knelt the vanquished foe, 
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, 

And waves were white below, 
No more shall feel the victor's tread, 

( )r know the conquered knee ; — 
The harpies of the shore shall pluck 

The eagle of the sea ! 


O better that her shattered hulk 

Should sink beneath the wave; 
Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 

And there should be her grave ; 
Kail to the mast her holy flag, 

Set every threadbare sail, 
And give her to the god of storms, 

The lightning and the gale ! 


When florid Peace resumed her golden reign, 
And arts revived, and valleys bloomed again ; 
While War still panted on his broken blade. 
Once more the Muse her heavenly wing essayed. 
Rude was the song; some ballad, stern and wild, 
Lulled the light slumbers of the soldier's child ; 
Or young romancer, with his threatening glanee 
And fearful fables of his bloodless lance, 
Scared the soft fancy of the clinging girls, 
Whose snowy fingers smoothed his raven curls. 
But when long years the stately form had bent, 
And faithless memory her illusions lent, 
So vast the outlines of Tradition grew, 
That History wondered at the shapes she drew, 
And veiled at length their too ambitious hues 
Beneath the pinions of the Epic Muse. 

Far swept her wing; for stormier days had 
With darker passions deeper tides of thought. 



The camp's harsh tumult and the conflict's glow, 

The thrill of triumph and the gasp of wroe, 

The tender parting and the glad return, 

The festal banquet and the funeral urn, — 

And all the drama which at once uprears 

It> spectral shadows through the clash of spears, 

From camp and field to echoing verse transferred, 

Swelled the proud song that listening nations heard. 

Why floats the amarantli in eternal hloom 
O'er Ilium's turrets and Achilles' tomb ! 
Why lingers fancy, where the sunbeams smile 
On Circe's gardens and Calypso's isle ! 
Why follows memory to the gate of Troy 
Her plumed defender and his trembling hoy? 
Lo the blind dreamer, kneeling on the sand, 
To trace these records with his douhtful hand ; 
In fabled tones his own emotion flows, 
And other lips repeat his silent woes; 
In Hector's infant see the babes that shun 
Those deathlike eye.-, unconscious of the sun, 
Or in his hero hear himself implore, 
" Give me to see, and Ajax asks no more ! " 

Thus live undying through the lapse of time 
The solemn Legends of the warrior's elime ; 
Like Egypt's pyramid, or Pajstum's fane, 
They stand the heralds of the voiceless plain; 
Yet not like them, for Time, by slow degrees, 
Baps the gray Btone, and wears the chiselled frieze, 
And I-is sleeps beneath her Bubject Nile, 
And crumbled Neptune strews his Dorian pile; 
But Art's fair fabric, strengthening as it rears 
Its laurelled columns through the mist of years, 


As the blue arches of the bending skies 
Still gird the torrent, following as it flies, 
Spreads, with the surges bearing on mankind, 
Its starred pavilion o'er the tides of mind ! 

In vain the patriot asks some lofty lay- 
To dress in state our wars of yesterday. 
The classic days, those mothers of romance, 
That roused a nation for a woman's glance ; 
The age of mystery with its hoarded power, 
That girt the tyrant in his storied tower, 
Have past and faded like a dream of youth, 
And riper eras ask for history's truth. 

On other shores, above their mouldering towns, 
In sullen pomp the tall cathedral frowns, 
Pride in its aisles, and paupers at the door, 
Which feeds the beggars whom it fleeced of yore. 
Simple and frail, our lowly temples throw 
Their slender shadows on the paths below ; 
Scarce steal the winds, that sweep his woodland tracks, 
The larch's perfume from the settler's axe, 
Ere, like a vision of the morning air, 
His slight-framed steeple marks the house of prayer ; 
Its planks all reeking, and its paint undried, 
Its rafters sprouting on the shady side, 
It sheds the raindrops from its shingled caves, 
Ere its green brothers once have changed their 

Yet Faith's pure hymn, beneath its shelter rude, 
Breathes out as sweetly to the tangled wood, 
As where the rays through blazing oriels pour 
On marble shaft and tessellated floor ; — 


Heaven asks no surplice round the heart that feels, 
And all is holy where devotion kneels. 

Thus on the soil the patriot's knee should bend, 
Which holds the dust once living to defend; 
Where'er the hireling shrinks before the free, 
Each pass heeomes "a new Thcrmopyhe " ! 
Where'er the hattles of the brave are won, 
There every mountain " looks on Marathon " ! 

Our fathers live ; they guard in glory still 
The grass-grown bastions of the fortressed hill; 
Still ring the echoes of the trampled gorge, 
With God and Freedom 1 England and Saint Geonjd 

The royal cipher on the captured gun 

M-.cks the sharp night-dews and the blistering sun ! 
The red-cross banner shades its captor's bust, 
Its folds still loaded with the conflict's dust ; 
The drum, suspended by its tattered marge, 
Once rolled and rattled to the Hessian's charge; 
The stars have floated from Britannia's' mast, 
The redcoat's trumpets blown the rebel's blast. 

Point to the summits where the brave have bled, 
Where every village claims its glorious dead ; 
Say, when their bosoms met the bayonet's shock, 
Their only corselet was the rustic frock ; 
Say, when they mustered to the gathering horn, 
The titled chieftain curled his lip in scorn, 
Yet, when their leader bade his lines advance, 
No musket wavered in the lion's glance; 
Say, when they fainted in the forced retreat, 
They tracked the snow-drifts with their bleeding 


Yet still their banners, tossing in the blast, 
Bore Ever Ready, 1 faithful to the last, 
Through storm and battle, till they waved again 
On Yorktown's hills and Saratoga's plain ! 

Then, if so fierce the insatiate patriot's flame, 
Truth looks too pale, and history seems too tame, 
Bid him await some new Columbiad's page, 
To gild the tablets of an iron age, 
And save his tears, which yet may fall upon 
Some fabled field, some fancied Washington ! 


But once again, from their iEolian cave, 
The winds of Genius wandered on the wave. 
Tired of the scenes the timid pencil drew, 
Sick of the'notes the sounding clarion blew; 
Sated with heroes who had worn so long 
The shadowy plumage of historic song ; 
The new-born poet left the beaten course, 
To track the passions to their living source. 

Then rose the Drama; — and the world admired 
Her varied page with deeper thought inspired ; 
Bound to no clime, for Passion's throb is one 
In Greenland's twilight or in India's sun ; 
Born for no age, — for all the thoughts that roll 
In the dark vortex of the stormy soul, 
( song, no freezing years can tame; 
God gave them birth, and man is still the same. 


So full on life her magic mirror shone, 
Her sister Arts paid tribute to her throne; 
One reared her temple, one her canvas warmed, 
And Music thrilled, while Eloquence informed. 

The weary rustic left his stinted task 

For smiles and tears, the dagger and the mask; 

The sage, turned scholar, half forgot his lore, 

To be the woman he despised before; 

O'er Bense and thought she threw her golden chain, 

And Time, the anarch, spares her deathless reign. 

Thus lives Medea, in our tamer age, 
As when her buskin pressed the Grecian stage; 
Not in the cells where frigid learning delves 
In Aldine folios mouldering on their shelves ; 
But breathing, burning in the glittering throng, 
Whose thousand hravos roll untired along, 
Circling and spreading through the gilded halls, 
From London's galleries to San Carlo's walls ! 

Thus shall he live whose more than mortal name 
Mocks with its ray the pallid torch of Fame ; 
80 proudly lifted, that it seems alar 
No earthly Pharos, but a heavenly star ; 
Who, uneonfined to Art's diurnal bound, 
Girds her whole zodiac in his flaming round, 
And leads the passions, like the orb that guides, 
From pole to pole, the palpitating tides ! 



Though round the Muse the robe of song- is 
Think not the poet lives in verse alone. 
Long ere the chisel of the sculptor taught 
The lifeless stone to mock the living thought: 
Long ere the painter bade the canvas glow 
With every line the forms of beauty know ; 
Long ere the Iris of the Muses threw 
On every leaf its own celestial hue ; 
In fable's dress the breath of genius poured, 
And warmed the shapes that later times adored. 

Untaught by Science how to forge the keyB, 
That loose the gates of Nature's mysteries; 
Unschooled by Faith, who, with her angel tread, 
Leads through the labyrinth with a Bingle thread, 
His fancy, hovering round her guarded tower. 
Rained through its bars like Danae's golden shower. 

He spoke; the sea-nymph answered from her cave: 
He called; the naiad left her mountain wave: 
He dreamed of beauty; lo, amidst his dream, 
Narcissus mirrored in the breathless stream ; 
And night's chaste empress, in her bridal play, 
Laughed through the foliage where Endvmion lav ; 
And ocean dimpled, as the languid swell 
Kissed the red lip of Cytherea's shell : 
Of power,— Bellona swept the crimson field, 
And blue-eyed Pallas shook her Gorgon shield; 
( > Vr the hushed waves their mightier monarch drove, 
And Ida trembled to the tread of Jove ! 


So every grace that plastic language knows 
To nameless poets its perfection on 
The rough-hewn words to simplest thoughts eon- 
Were eut and polished in their nicer mind ; 
Caught on their edge, imagination's ray 
Splits into rainbows, shooting far away; — 
From Bense to soul, from soul to sense, it flies, 
And throng]] all nature links analogies; 
He who reads right will rarely look upon 
A better poet than his lexicon! 

There is a race, which cold, un<renial skies 
Breed from decay, as fungous growths arise; 
Though dying last, yet springing fast again, 

Which still usurps an unsubstantial reign. 

With frames too languid for the charms of sense, 

And minds worn down with action too intense ; 

Tired of a world whose joys they never knew, 

Themselves deceived, yet thinking all untrue; 

Scarce men without, and less than girls within, 

Sick of their life before its cares begin ; — 

The dull disease, which drains their feeble hearts, 

To life's decay some hectic thrills imparts, 

And lends a force, which, like the maniac's power, 

Pays with blank years the frenzy of an hour. 

And this is Genius ! Say, docs Heaven degrade 
The manly frame, for health, for action made? 
Break down the sinews, rack the brow witli pains, 
Blanch the bright cheek, and drain the purple veins, 
To clothe the mind with more extended sway, 
Thus faintly strug^lin^ in degenerate clay I 


No ! gentle maid, too ready to admire, 
Though false its notes, the pale enthusiast's lyre ; 
If this be genius, though its hitter springs 
Glowed like the morn beneath Aurora's wings, 
Seek not the source whose sullen bosom feeds 
But fruitless flowers, and dark, envenomed weeds. 

But, if so bright the dear illusion seems, 
Thou wouldst be partner of thy poet's dreams, 
And hang in rapture on his bloodless charms, 
Or die, like Raphael, in his angel arms; 
Go, and enjoy thy blessed lot, — to share 
In Cowper's gloom, or Chatterton's despair ! 

Not such were they, whom, wandering o'er the 
I looked to meet, but only found their graves ; 
If friendship's smile, the better part of lame, 
Should lend my song the only wreath I claim, 
Whose voice would greet me with a sweeter tone, 
Whose living hand more kindly press my own, 
Than theirs, —could Memory, as her silent tread 
Prints the pale flowers that blossom o'er the dead, 
Those breathless lips, now closed in peace, restore, 
Or wake those pulses hushed to beat no more? 

Thou calm, chaste scholar ! 8 I can sec thee now, 
The first young laurels on thy pallid brow, 
O'er thy Blight figure floating b'ghtly <!< wn 
In graceful folds the academic gown, 
On thy curled lip the classic lines, that taught 
How nice the mind that sculptured mem with thought, 
And triumph glistening in the clear blue eye, 
Too bright lo live, — but oh, too lair to die! 


And thou, dear friend, 9 whom Science still de- 
And love srill mourns, on ocean-severed shores, 
Though the bleak forest twice has bowed with snow, 
Since thou wast laid its budding Leaves below, 
Thine image mingles with my closing strain, 
As when we wandered by the turbid Seine, 
Both blest with hopes, which revelled, bright and free, 
On all we longed, or all wc dreamed to be ; 
To thee the amaranth and the cypress fell, — 
And I was spared to breathe this last farewell ! 

But lived there one in unremembered days, 
Or lives there still, who spurns the poet's bays, 
Whose fingers, dewy from Castalia's springs, 
Rest on the lyre, yet scorn to touch the strings? 
Who shakes the senate with the silver tone 
The groves of Pindns might have sighed to own? 
I lave Buch e'er been i Remember Canning's name ! 
Do such still live \ Let " Alaric's Dirge " pro- 
claim ! 

Immortal Art ! where'er the rounded sky 
Bends o'er the cradle where thy children lie, 
Their home is earth, their herald every tongue 
Whose accents echo to the voice that sung. 
One leap of Ocean scatters on the sand 
The quarried bulwarks of the loosening land; 
One thrill of earth dissolves a century's toil 
Strewed like the leaves that vanish in the soil ; 
One hill o'erflows, and cities sink below, 
Their marbles splintering in the lava's glow ; 
.But one BWeet tone, scarce whispered to the air, 
From shore to shore the blasts of ages bear ; 



One humble name, which oft, perchance, has borne 
The tyrant's mockery and the courtier's scorn, 
Towers o'er the dust of earth's forgotten graves, 
As once, emerging through the waste of waves, 
The rocky Titan, round whose shattered spear 
Coiled the last whirlpool of the drowning sphere ! 



SOMETIMES sit beneath a tree, 

And read my own sweet Bongs ; 
Though naught they may to others be, 
Each humble line prolongs 
A tone that might have passed away, 
But for that scarce remembered lay. 

I keep them like a lock or leaf, 

That some dear girl lias given ; 

Frail record of an hour, as brief 
As sunset clouds in heaven, 

But spreading purple twilight still 

High over memory's shadowed hill. 

They lie upon my pathway bleak, 

Those flowers that once ran wild, 

As on a father's care-worn cheek 
The ringlets of his child ; 

The golden mingling with the gray, 

And stealing half its snows away. 

What care I though the dust is spread 
Around these yellow leaves, 


Or o'er them his sarcastic thread 
Oblivion's insect weaves ; 

Though weeds arc tangled on the stream, 

It still reflects my morning's beam. 

And therefore love I such as smile 
On these neglected songs, 

Nor deem that flattery's needless wile 
My opening bosom wrong 

For who would trample, at my side, 
A few pale buds, my garden's pride? 

It may be that my scanty ore 

Long years have washed away, 

And where were golden sands before, 
Is naught but common clay ; 

Still something sparkles in the sun 

For memory to look back upon. 

And when my name no more is heard, 
My lyre no more is known, 

Still let me, like a winter's bird, 
In silence and alone, 

Fold over them the weary wing 

Once flashing through the dews of spring. 

Yes, let my fancy fondly wrap 

My youth in its decline, 
And riot in the rosy lap 

Of thoughts that once were mine. 
And give the worm niv little BtOTti 
"When the last reader reads no more ! 





ET greener lands and bluer skies, 
It' Bneh the wide earth shows. 
With fairer checks and brighter eyes, 
March us the star and rose; 
The winds that lift the Georgian's veil, 

Or wave Circassia's curls, 
Waft to their shores the sultan's sail, — 
Who buys our Yankee girls ? 

The gay grisette, whose fingers touch 

Love's thousand chords so well ; 
The dark Italian, loving much, 

But more than one can tell ; 
And England's fair-haired, blue-eyed dame, 

Who binds "her brow with pearls; — 
Ye who have seen them, can they shame 

Our own sweet Yankee girls ? 

And what if court or castle vaunt 

Its children loftier born ? — 
Who heeds the silken tassel's flaunt 

Beside the golden corn ? 
They ask not for the dainty toil 

Of ribboned knights and earls, 
The daughters of the virgin soil, 

Our freeborn Yankee girls ! 

By every hill whose stately pines 

Wave their dark arms above 
The home where some fair being shines, 

To warm the wilds with love, 


From barest rock to bleakest shore 

Where farthest sail unfurls, 
That stars and stripes are streaming o'er, — 

God bless our Yankee girls ! 


H Clemence ! when I saw thee last 
Trip down the Rue de Seine, 
And turning, when thy form had past, 
I said, " We meet again," — 
I dreamed not in that idle glance 

Thy latest image came, 

And only left to memory's trance 

A shadow and a name. 

The few strange words my lips had taught 

Thy timid voice to speak, 
Their gentler signs, which often brought 

Eresh roses to thy check, 
The trailing of thy long loose hair 

Bent o'er my couch of pain, 
All, all returned, more sweet, more fair ; 

had we met again ! 

I walked where saint and virgin keep 
The vigil lights of Heaven, 

I knew that thou hadst woes to weep, 
And sins to be forgiven ; 

I watched where Genevieve was laid, 

1 knelt by Mary's shrine, 
Beside me low, soft voices prayed . 

Alas ! but where was thine ! 


And when the morning sun was bright, 

When wind and wave were calm, 
And flamed, In thousand-tinted light, 

The rose of Notre Dame, 
I wandered through the haunts of men, 

From Boulevard to Quai, 
Till, frowning o'er Saint Etienne, 

The Pantheon's shadow lay. 

In vain, in vain ; we meet no more, 

Nor dream what fates befall; 
And long upon the stranger's shore 

My voice on thee may call, 
"When years have clothed the line in moss 

That tells thy name and days, 
And withered, on thy simple cross, 

The wreaths of Pere-la-Chaise ! 



F sometimes in the dark blue eye, 
Or in the deep red wine, 
Or soothed by gentlest melody, 
Still warms this heart of mine, 
Yet something colder in the blood, 

And calmer in the brain, 
Have whispered that my youth's bright flood 
Ebbs, not to flow again. 

If by Helvetia's azure lake, 
Or Arno's yellow stream, 



Each star of memory could awake, 
As in my first young dream, 

I know that when mine eye shall greet 
The hill-sides bleak and hare, 

That gird my home, it will not meet 
My childhood's sunsets there. 

O when love's first, sweet, stolen kiss 

Burned on my hoyish brow, 
Was that young forehead worn as this? 

Was that flushed cheek as now ! 
Were that wild pulse and throbbing heart 

Like these, which vainly strive, 
In thankless strains of soulless art, 

To dream themselves alive ? 

Alas ! the morning dew is gone, 

Gone ere the full of day : 
Life's iron fetter still is on, 

Its wreaths all torn away ; 
Happy if still some casual hour 

Can warm the fading shrine, 
Too soon to chill beyond the power 

Of love, or song, or wine ! 


ES, lady ! I can ne'er forget, 
That once in other years wo met ; 
Thy memory may perchance recall 
A festal eve, a rose-wreathed hall, 
Its tapers' blaze, its mirrors' glance, 

Its melting song, its ringing dance; — 


Why, in thy dream of virgin joy, 
Shouldst thou recall a pallid boy ! 

Thine eye had Other forms to seek, 

Why lvst upon his bashful cheek I 

With other tones thy heart was stirred, 

Why waste on him a gentle" word ? 

We parted, lady, — all night long 

Thine ear to thrill with dance and song, — 

And I — to weep that I was born 

A thing thou scarce wouldst deign to scorn. 

And, lady! now that years have past, 
My hark has reached the shore at last ; 
The galea that filled her ocean wing 
Have chilled and shrunk thy hasty spring, 
And eye to eye, and brow to brow, 
I stand before thy presence now; — 
Thy lip is smoothed, thy voice is sweet, 
Thy warm hand offered when we meet. 

Nay, lady ! 't is not now for me 
To droop the lid or bend the knee. 
I seek thee, — oh, thou dost not shun ; 
I -peak, — thou listenest like a nun ; 
I ask thy smile, — thy lip uncurls, 
Too liberal of its flashing pearls ; 
Thy tears, — thy lashes sink again, — 
My Hebe turns to Magdalen! 

O changing youth ! that evening hour 

Look down on ours, — the bud — the flower; 

Thine faded in its virgin soil, 

And mine was nursed in tears and toil ; 

42 "QUI VIVE!" 

Thy leaves were withering, one by one, 
While mine were opening to the sun ; — 

Which now can meet the cold and storm 
"With freshest leaf and hardiest form \ 

Ay, lady ! that onee haughty glance 

Still wanders through the glittering dance, 

And asks in vain from others' pride 

The charity thine own denied ; 

And as thy fickle lips could learn 

To smile and praise, — that used to spurn, 

So the last ottering on thy shrine 

Shall be this flattering lav of mine ! 


1 UI VIVE! " The sentry's musket rings, 
The channelled bayonet gleams; 
High o'er hint, like a raven's wings 

The broad tri-eolored banner flings 
Its shadow, rustling as it swings 

Pale in the moonlight beams ; 
Pass on! while steel-clad sentries keep 
Their vigil o'er the monarch's Bleep, 

Thy bare, unguarded breast 
Asks not the unbroken, bristling zone 
That girds yon sceptred trembler's throne; — 

Pass on, and take thy rest ! 

Qui vm ! " How oft the midnight air 

That startling cry has borne! 


How oft the evening breeze has fanned 
The banner of this haughty land, 
( >Vr mountain snow and desert sand, 

Ere yet its folds were torn ! 
Through Jena's carnage flying red, 
Or tossing o'er Marengo's dead, 

( )r curling on the towers 
Where Austria's eagle quivers yet, 
And suns the ruffled plumage, wet 

With battle's crimson showers ! 

" Qui rire ! " And is the sentry's cry, — 

The sleepless soldier's hand, — 
Are these — the painted folds that fly 
And lift their emblems, printed high 
On morning mist and sunset sky — 

The guardians of a land \ 
No ! If the patriot's pulses sleep, 
How vain the watch that hirelings keep, — 

The idle flag that waves, 
When Conquest, with his iron heel, 
Treads down the standards and the steel 

That belt the soil of slaves ! 


HE two proud sisters of the sea, 
In -lory and in doom ! — 
Well may the eternal waters he 

Their broad, unseulptured tomb ! 
The wind that rings along the wave, 
The clear, unshadowed sun, 


Are torcli and trumpet o'er the brave. 
Whose last green wreath is won! 

No stranger-hand their banners furled, 

No victor's shout they heard ; 
Unseen, above them ocean curled, 

Save by his own pale bird : 
The gnashing billows heaved and fell; 

Wild shrieked the midnight gale ; 
Far, far beneath the morning swell 

Were pennon, spar, and sail. 

The land of Freedom ! Sea and shore 

Are guarded now, as when 
Her ebbing waves to victory bore 

Fair harks and gallant men; 
O many a ship of prouder name 

May wave her starry fold, 
Nor trail, with deeper light of lame, 

The paths they swept of old ! 


WEET Mary, T have never breathed 

The love it were in vain to name ; 
Though round my heart a serpent 
I smiled, or strove to smile, the same. 

Once more the pulse of Nature glows 

With faster throb and fresher lire, 
While music round her pathway Hows, 

Like echoes from a hidden lvre. 


And is there none with me to share 
The glories of the earth and sky 1 

The eagle through the pathless air 
Is followed by one burning eye. 

Ah no ! the cradled flowers may wake, 

Again may flow the frozen sea, 
From every cloud a star may break, — 

There comes no second Spring to me. 

Go, — ere the painted toys of youth 

Are crushed beneath the tread of years ; 

Ere visions have been chilled to truth, 

And hopes are washed away in tears. 

Go, — for I will not hid thee weep, — 
Too soon my sorrows will be thine, 

And evening's troubled air shall sweep 
The incense from the broken shrine. 

If Heaven can hear the dying tone 

Of chords that soon will cease to thrill, 

The prayer that Heaven has heard alone 

May bless thee when those chords are still. 


TRAXGE ! that one lightly-whispered 

Is far, far sweeter unto me, 
Tlum all the sounds that kiss the earth, 
Or breathe along the sea ; 


But, lady, when thy voice I greet, 

Not heavenly music seems so sweet. 

I look upon the fair blue skies, 

And naught but empty air I see; 

But when I turn me to thine eyes, 
It seemeth unto me 

Ten thousand angels spread their wings 

Within those little azure rings. 

The lily hath the softest leaf 

That ever western breeze hath fanned, 
But thou shalt have the tender flower, 

So I may take thy hand ; 
That little hand to me doth yield 
More joy than all the broidcred field. 

lady ! there be many things 

That seem right fair, below, above ; 

But sure not one among them all 
Is half so sweet as love ; — 

Let us not pay our vows alone, 

But join two altars both in one. 


EAREST, a look is but a ray 
Reflected in a certain way ; 
A word, whatever tone it wear, 
Is but a trembling wave of air; 
A touch, obedience to a clause 
In nature's pure material laws. 


The very flowers that bend and meet, 
In Bweetening others, grow more sweet; 
The clouds by day, the Btars by night. 
Inweave their floating Locks of light; 

The rainbow, Heaven's own forehead's braid, 
Is but the embrace of sun and shade. 

How few that love us have we found ! 
How wide the world that girds them round ! 
Like mountain streams we meet and part, 
Each living in the other's heart, 

Our course unknown, our hope to be 
Yet mingled in the distant sea. 

Bat ( )eean coils and heaves in vain, 
Bound in the subtle moonbeam's chain ; 
And love and hope do but obey 
Some cold, capricious planet's ray, 
Which lights and leads the tide it charms 
To Death's dark caves and icy arms. 

Alas ! one narrow line is drawn, 
That links our sunset with our dawn ; 
In mist and shade life's morning rose, 
And clouds are round it at its close ; 
But ah ! no twilight beam ascends 
To whisper where that evening ends. 

Oh ! in the hour when I shall feel 
Those shadows round my senses steal, 
When gentle eyes are weeping o'er 
The clay that feels their tears no more, 
Then let thy spirit with me be, 
Or some sweet angel, likest thee ! 



S thy name Mary, maiden fair? 

Such should, methinks, its music be 
The sweetest name that mortals bear. 
Were best befitting thee ; 

And she, to whom it once was given, 
Was half of earth and half of heaven. 

I hear thy voice, I sec thy smile, 
I look upon thy folded hair ; 

Ah! while we dream not they beguile, 
Our hearts are in the snare ; 

And she who chains a wild bird's wing 

Must start not if her captive sing. 

So, lady, take the leaf that falls, 

To all but thee unseen, unknown ; 

When evening shades thy silent walls, 
Then read it all alone ; 

In stillness read, in darkness seal, 

Forget, despise, but not reveal ! 


^|HE sun stepped down from his golden 
And lay in the silent sea. 
And the Lily had folded her satin leaves, 
For a sleepy thing was she : 


What is the Lily dreaming ofl 

Why crisp the waters blue ? 
See, Bee, Bhe is Lifting her varnished lid ! 

Her white leaves are glistening through! 

The Rose is cooling his burning check 

In the lap of* the breathless tide ; — 
The Lily hath sisters fresh and fair, 

That would lie by the Hose's side ; 
lie would love her better than all the rest, 

And he would he fond and true ; — 
But the Lily unfolded her weary lids, 

And looked at the sky so blue. 

Remember, remember, thou silly one, 
How last will thy summer glide, 

And wilt thou wither a virgin pale, 
< )r flourish a blooming hride ? 

" () the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold, 
And he lives on earth/' said she; 

" But the Star is fair and he lives in the air, 
.Vml he shall my bridegroom be." 

But what if the stormy cloud should come, 

And ruffle the silver sea \ 
Would he turn his eye from the distant sky, 

To smile on a thing like thee 3 
O no, fair Lily, he will not send 

One ray from his far-off throne ; 
The winds shall blow and the waves shall flow, 

And thou wilt be left alone. 

There is not a leaf on the mountain-top, 
Nor a drop of evening dew, 



Nor a golden sand on the sparkling shore, 
Nor a pearl in the waters bine, 

That lie lias not cheered with his fickle smile, 
And warmed with his faithless beam, — 

And will he be true to a pallid flower, 
That floats on the quiet stream ? 

Alas for the Lily ! she wonld not heed, 

But turned to the skies afar, 
And bared her breast to the trembling ray 

That shot from the rising star ; 
The cloud came over the darkened sky, 

And over the waters wide : 
She looked in vain through the beating rain, 

And sank in the stormy tide. 


HE twirled the string of golden bends, 
That round her neck was hung, — 
My grandsire's gift ; the good old man 
Loved girls when he was young; 
And, bending lightly o'er the cord, 

And turning half away, 
With something like a youthful sigh, 
Thus spoke the maiden gray : — 

"Well, one may trail her silken robe, 

And bind her locks with pearls, 
And one may wreathe the woodland rose 
• Among her floating curls ; 


And one may tread the dewy grass, 

And one the marble floor, 
Nor half-hid bosom heave the less, 

Nor broidered eorset more ! 

" Some years ago, a dark-eyed girl 

Was sitting in the shade, — 
There 's something brings her to my mind 

In that young dreaming maid, — 
And in her hand she held a flower, 

A flower, whose speaking hue 
Said, in the language of the heart, 

1 Believe the giver true/ 

" And, as she looked upon its leaves, 

The maiden made a vow 
To wear it when the bridal wreath 

Was woven for her brow ; 
She watched the flower, as, day by day, 

The leaflets curled and died ; 
But he who gave it never came 

To claim her for his bride. 

" many a summer's morning glow 

Has lent the rose its ray, 
And many a winter's drifting snow 

Has swept its bloom away; 
But she has kept that faithless pledge 

To this, her winter hour, 
And keeps it still, herself alone, 

And wasted like the flower." 

Her pale lip quivered, and the light 

Gleamed in her moistening eyes ; — 


I asked her how she liked the tints 

In those Castilian skies ? 
" She thought them misty, — 'twas perhaps 

Because she stood too near " ; 
She turned away, and as she turned 

I saw her wipe a tear. 


E died not as the martyr dies, 

Wrapped in his living shroud of flame 
He fell not as the warrior falls, 
Gasping upon the field of fame ; 
A gentler passage to the grave, 
The murderer's softened fury gave. 

Rome's slaughtered sons and blazing piles 
Had tracked the purple demon's path, 

And yet another victim lived 

To fill the fiery scroll of wrath ; 

Could not imperial vengeance spare 

His furrowed brow and silver hair \ 

The field was sown with noble blood, 

The harvest reaped in burning tears, 

When, rolling up its crimson flood, 

Broke the long-gathering tide of years; 

His diadem was rent away, 

And beggars trampled on his clay. 

None wept, — none pitied ; — they who knelt 
At morning by the despot's throne, 


At evening dashed the laurelled bust, 

And spurned the wreaths themselves 
strewn ; 
The BhOUt Of triumph echoed wide, 

The self-stung reptile writhed and died ! 




STILL, sweet, placid, moonlight face, 

And Blightly nonchalant, 
Which seems to claim a middle place 

s»fl Between one's love and aunt, 

Where childhood's star has left a ray 
In woman's sunniest sky, 

As morning dew and blushing day 
On fruit and blossom lie. 

And yet, — and yet I cannot love 

Those lovely lines on steel ; 
They beam too much of heaven above, 

Earth's darker shades to feel ; 
Perchance some early weeds of care 

Around my heart have grown, 
And brows unfurrowed seem not fair, 

Because they mock my own. 

Alas ! when Eden's gates were sealed, 
How oft some sheltered Bower 

Breathed o'er the wanderer- of the field, 
Like their own bridal bower ; 


Yet, saddened by its loveliness, 
And humbled by its pride, 
Earth's fairest child they could not Mess, — 

It mocked them when they sighed. 


HE sun-browned girl, whose limbs recline 
When noon her languid hand has laid 
Hot on the green flakes of the pine, 
Beneath its narrow disk of shade ; 

As, through the flickering noontide glare, 
She gazes on the rainbow chain 

Of arches, lifting once in air 

The rivers of the Roman's plain ; — 

Say, does her wandering eye recall 

The mountain-current's icy wave, — 

Or for the dead one tear let fall, 

Whose founts arc broken by their grave '? 

From stone to stone the ivy weaves 

Her braided tracery's winding veil, 

And lacing stalks and tangled leaves 
Nod heavy in the drowsy gale. 

And lightly floats the pendent vine,- 

That Bwings beneath her Blender bow, 

Arch answering arch, — whose rounded line 
Seems mirrored in the wreath below. 


How patient Nature Bmiles at Fame! 

The weeds, that Btrewed the victor's way, 
Feed on his dust to shroud his name, 

Green where his proudest towers decay. 

through that channel, empty now, 
The scanty rain its tribute pours, — 
Which cooled the 1 1 x > and laved the brow 
Of conquerors from a hundred shores. 

Thus bending o'er the nation's bier, 

Whose wants the captive earth supplied, 
The dew of Memory's passing tear 

Falls on the arches of her pride ! 


felHE sun is fading in the skies 


And evening shades are gathering fast; 
Fair cify, ere that sun-shall rise, 

Thy night hath come, — thy day is past ! 

Ye know not, — but the hour is nigh ; 

Ye will not heed the warning breath ; 
No vision strikes your clouded eye, 

To break the sleep that wakes in death, 

Go, age, and let thy withered cheek 

Be wet once more with freezing tears ; 

And bid thy trembling sorrow speak, 
In accents of departed year-. 


Go, child, and pour thy sinless prayer 

Before the everlasting throne ; 
And He who sits in glory there 

May stoop to hear thy silver tone. 

Go, warrior, in thy flittering steel, 
And bow thee at the altar's side; 

And bid thy frowning gods reveal 

The doom their mystic counsels hide. 

Go, maiden, in thy flowing veil, 

And bare thy brow, and bend thy knee ; 
"When the last hopes of mercy fail, 

Thy God may yet remember thee. 

Go, as thou didst in happier hours, 

And lay thine incense on the shrine; 

And greener leaves, and fairer flowers, 
Around the sacred image twine. 

•,- v 

I saw them rise, — the buried dead, — 

From marble tomb and grassy mound ; 

I heard the spirits' printless tread, 

And voices not of earthly sound. 

I looked upon the quivering stream, 

And its cold wave Avas bright with flame ; 

And wild, as from a fearful dream, 

The wasted forms of battle came. 

Ye will not hear, — ye will not know, — 
Ye scorn the maniac's idle song; 

Ye care not ! but the voice of woe 

Shall thunder loud, and echo long. 


Blood >li;ill be in your marble halls. 

And Bpears shall glance, and fires shall glom ; 

Ruin -hall Bit upon your walls, 

Bat ye shall lie in death below. 

Ay, none shall live to hear the storm 

Around their blackened pillars sweep; 

To shudder at the reptile's form, 

Or scare the wild bird from her sleep. 


OOR conquered monarch ! though that 
haughty glance 

Still speaks thy courage unsubdued 
sjjffi by time, 

And in the grandeur of thy sullen tread 

Lives the proud spirit of thy burning clime ; — 
Fettered by things that shudder at thy roar, 
Torn from thy pathless wilds to pace this narrow 

Thou wast the victor, and all nature shrunk 
Before the thunders of thine awful wrath ; 

The steel-armed hunter viewed thee from afar. 
Fearless and trackless in thy lonely path! 

The famished tiger closed his flaming eye, 

And crouched and panted as thy step went by! 

Thou art the vanquished, and insulting man 

Ban thy broad i«>><>m as a sparrow's wing; 


His nerveless arms thine iron sinews bind, 

And lead in chains the desert's fallen kiiiLi ; 
Arc these the beings that have dared to twine 

Their feeble threads around those limbs of thine ? 

So must it be ; the weaker, wiser race, 

That wields the tempest and that rides the sea, 

Even in the stillness of thy solitude 

Must teach the lesson of it> power to thee; 

And thou, the terror of the trembling wild, 

.Must bow thv savage strength, the nioekerv of a 
child ! 


Z^C^-ppPlNE ancient Chair ! thv wide-embracing 

fcw arms 

w/r'pi: Have clasped around me even from 
$&%^&*\ a boy ; 

Hadst thou a voice to speak of years gone by, 
Thine were a tale of sorrow and of joy, 
Of fevered hOpes and ill-foreboding fears, 
And smiles unseen, and unrecorded tears. 

And thou, my Table ! though unwearied Time 
Hath set his signet on thine altered brow, 

Still can I see thee in thy spotless prime, 

And in my memory thou art living now ; 

Soon must thou slumber with forgotten things, 

The peasant's ashes and the dust of kings. 


Thou melancholy Sing! thy sober brown 

Hath something pensive in its evening hue, 

Not like the things that please the tasteless clown, 
With gaudy streaks of orange and of bine; 

And I must love thee, for thou art mine own, 
Pressed by my lip, and ] tressed by mine alone. 

My broken Mirror! faithless, yet beloved, 

Thou who canst smile, and smile alike on all, 

Oft do I leave thee, oft again return, 

I scorn the siren, but obey the call ; 

T hate thy falsehood, while I fear thy truth, 

But most I love thee, flattering friend of youth. 

Primeval Carpet ! every well-worn thread 
Has slowly parted with its virgin dye; 

I saw thee fade beneath the ceaseless tread, 
Fainter and fainter in mine anxious eye ; 

So flies the color from the brightest flower, 

And heaven's own rainbow lives but for an hour. 

I love you all ! there radiates from our own 
A soul that lives in every shape we sec ; 

There is a voice, to other ears unknown, 

Like echoed music answering to its key. 

The dungeoned captive hath a talc to tell 

Of every insect in his lonely cell; 

And these poor frailties have a simple tone, 

That breathes in accents sweet to me alone. 



SAW him once before, 
As he passed by the door, 

And again 
The pavement stones resound, 
As lie totters o'er the ground 
With his cane. 

They say that in his prime, 
Ere the pruning-knife of Time 

Cut him down, 
Not a better man was found 
By the Crier on his round 

Through the town. 

But now he walks the streets, 
And he looks at all he meets 

Sad and wan, 
And he shakes his feeble head, 
That it seems as if he said, 

" They are gone." 

The mossy marbles rest 
On the lips thai he has prest 

In their bloom, 
And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved lor many a year 

On the tomb. 

My grandmamma has said, — 
Poor old lady, Bhe is dead 
Long ago, — 


That he lia<l a Roman nose, 
And his check was like a rose 
In the snow. 

But now his nose is thin, 
And it rests upon his chin 

Like a staff, 
And a crook is in his hack, 
And a melancholy crack 

In his laugh, 

I know it is a sin 
For me to Bit and grin 

At him here ; 
But the old three-cornered hat, 
And the breeches, and all that, 

Are so queer ! 

And if I should live to he 
The last leaf upon the tree 

In the spring, — 
Let them smile, as I do now, 
At the old forsaken bough 

Where I cling. 


AX-YISAGE1) thing ! thy virgin leaf 
To me looks more than deadly pale, 

Unknowing what may stain thee yet, — 
A poem or a tale. 


Who can thy cmborD meaning scan ? 
Can Seer or Sibyl read thee now? 

No, — seek to trace the fate of man 
Writ on Ids infant brow. 

Love may light on thy snowy cheek, 

And shake his Eden-breathing plumes; 

Then shalt thou tell how Lelia smiles, 
Or Angelina blooms. 

Satire may lift his bearded lance, 

Forestalling Time's .slow-moving scythe, 

And, scattered on thy little field, 
Disjointed bards may writhe. 

Perchance a vision of the night, 

Some grizzled spectre, gaunt and thin, 

Or sheeted corpse, may stalk along, 
Or skeleton may grin ! 

If it should be in pensive hour 

Some sorrow-moving theme I try, 

Ah, maiden, how thy tears will fall, 
For all I doom to die ! 

But if in merry mood I touch 

Thy leaves, then shall the sight of thee 
Sow smiles as thick on rosy lips 

As ripples on the sea. 

The Weekly press shall gladly stoop 

To bind thee np among its sheaves ; 

The Daily steal thy shining ore, 
To gild its leaden leaves. 


Thou hast no tongue, yet thou cansl >i xak, 
Till distant Bhores .-hall hear the BOnnd ; 

Thou hast no life, yet thou canst breathe 
Fresh lite on all around. 

Thou art the arena of the wise, 

The noiseless battle-ground of fame ; 

The sky where halos may he wreathed 
Around the humblest name. 

Take, then, this treasure to thy trust, 
To win some idle reader's smile, 

Then lade and moulder in the dust, 

Or swell some bonfire's crackling pile. 


LOVE to hear thine earnest voiee, 

Wherever thou art hid, 
Thou testy little dogmatist, 
Thou pretty Katydid ! 
Thou mindest me of gentlefolks, — 

Old gentlefolks are they, — 
Thou say'>t an undisputed thing 
In such a solemn way. 

Thou art a female, Katydid ! 

I know it by the trill 
That quivers through thy piercing notes, 

So petulant and shrill. 
I think there is a knot of you 

Beneath the hollow tree, — 
A knot of spinster Katydids, — 

Do Katydids drink tea ' 


tell me where did Katy live; 

And what did Katy do \ 
And was she very fair and young. 

And yet so wicked, too ? 
Did Katy love a naughty man, 

( )r kiss more cheeks than one ? 

1 warrant Katy did no more 

Than many a Kate lias done. 

Dear me ! I '11 tell you all ahout 

My fuss with little Jane, 
And Ann, with whom I used to walk 

So often down the lane, 
And all that tore their locks of black, 

Or wet their eyes of blue, — 
Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid, 

What did poor Katy do 1 

Ah no ! the living oak shall crash, 

That stood for ages still, 
The rock shall rend its mossy base 

And thunder down the hill, 
Before the little Katydid 

Shall add one word, to tell 
The mystic story of the maid 

Whose name she knows so well. 

Peace to the ever-murmuring race ! 

And when the latest one 
Shall fold in death her feeble wings 

Beneath the autumn Bun, 
Then shall she raise her fainting voice. 

And lift her drooping lid, 
And then the child of future years . 

Shall hear what Katy did. 



OW, by the blessed Paphian queen, 
Who heaves the breast of sweet sixteen; 
By every name I cut on bark 
Before my morning star grew dark ; 

By Hymen's toreh, by Cupid's dart, 

By all that thrills the beating heart ; 

The bright black eye, the melting blue, — 

I cannot choose between the two. 

I had a vision in my dreams ; — 
I saw a row of twenty beams; 
Prom every beam a rope was hung, 
In every rope a lover swung ; 
I asked the hue of every eye, 
That bade each luckless lover die ; 
Ten shadowy lips said, heavenly blue, 
And ten accused the darker hue. 

I asked a matron which she deemed 

With fairest light of beauty beamed ; 

She answered, some thought both were fair, — 

Give her blue eyes and golden hair. 

I might have liked her judgment well, 

But, as she spoke, she rung the bell, 

And all her girls, nor small nor few, 

Came marching in, — their eyes were blue. 

I asked a maiden ; back she flung 
The locks that round her forehead hung. 
And turned her eye, a glorious one, 
Blight as a diamond in the sun, 


66 MY AUNT. 

On me, until beneath its rays 

I felt as if my hair would Maze ; 

She liked all eyes hut eyes of green; 

She looked at me ; what eould she mean ! 

Ah ! many lids Love lurks between, 
Nor heeds the coloring of his screen ; 

And when his random arrows fly, 
The victim falls, hut knows not why. 
Gaze not upon his shield of jet, 
The shaft upon the string is set ; 
Look not beneath his azure veil, 
Though every limb were eased in mail. 

Well, both might make a martyr break 
The ehain that bound him to the stake ; 
And both, with but a single ray, 
Can melt our very hearts away ; 
And both, when balanced, hardly seem 
To stir the seales, or roek the beam ; 
But that is dearest, all the while, 
That wears for us the sweetest smile. 


Y aunt ! my dear unmarried aunt ! 
Long years have o'er her flown ; 
Yet still she strains the aching clasp 
That binds her virgin zone ; 
I know it hurts her, — though she look> 

As cheerful as she can ; 
Her waist is ampler than her life, 
For life is but a span. 

MY AUNT. 67 

Mv Hunt ! my poor deluded aunt ! 

Her hair is almost gray ; 
Why will she train that winter curl 

In Buch a >pring-like way ( 
Bow ran she lay her glasses down, 

Ami say she read- as well, 
When, through a double convex lens, 

She just makes out to spell ? 

Her father — grandpapa ! forgive 

This erring lip its smiles — 
Vowed she should make the finest girl 

Within a hundred miles ; 
lie sent her to a stylish school ; 

'T was in her thirteenth June ; 
And with her, as the rules required, 

" Two towels and a spoon." 

They braced my aunt against a board, 

To make her straight and tall ; 
They laced her up, they starved her down, 

To make her light and small ; 
They pinched her feet, they singed her hair, 

They screwed it up with pins ; — 
O never mortal suffered more 

In penance for her sins. 

So, when my precious aunt was done, 

My grandsire brought her back ; 
(By daylight, lest some rabid youth 

Might follow on the track; ) 
" Ah ! " said my grandsire, as he shook 

Some powder in his pan, 
u What could this lovely creature do 

Against a desperate man ! " 


Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche, 

N(»r bandit cavalcade, 
Tore from the trembling father's arms 

His all-accomplished maid. 
For her how happy had ir been ! 

And Heaven had spared to me 
To see one Bad, unfathered rose 

On my ancestral tree. 


HERE 'S a thing that grows by the 

fainting flower, 
And springs in the shade of the lady's 

bower ; 

The lily shrinks, and the rose turns pale, 
When they feel its breath in the summer gale, 
And the tulip curls its leaves in pride, 
And the blue-eyed violet starts aside ; 
But the lily may flaunt, and the tulip stare, 
For what does the honest toadstool care ! 

She does not glow in a painted vest, 
And she never blooms on the maiden's breast ; 
But she comes, as the saintly sisters do, 
In a modest suit of a Quaker hue. 
And, when the stars in the evening skies 
Are weeping dew from their gentle eyes, 
The toad comes out from his hermit cell, 
The tale of his faithful love to tell. 

there is light in her lover's glance, 
That Hies to her heart like a silver lance ; 


His breeches are made of spotted skin, 
His jacket is tight, and his pnnips are thin; 
In a cloudless night yon may hear his song, 
As its pensive melody floats along, 

And, if yon will look by the moonlight fair, 
The trend ding form of the toad is there. 

And lie twines his arms round her slender stem, 
In the shade of her velvet diadem ; 
But she turns away in her maiden shame, 
And will not breathe on the kindling flame; 
lie sings at her feet through the livelong night, 
And creeps to his cave at the break of light; 
And whenever he conies to the air above, 
His tln-oat is swelling with baffled love. 


'T was not many centuries since, 

When, gathered on the moonlit green, 
Beneath the Tree of Liberty, 

A ring of weeping sprites was seen. 

The freshman's lamp had long been dim, 
The voice of busy day was mute, 

And tortured Melody had ceased 

Her sufferings on the evening flute. 

* Written after a general pruniDg of the trees around 
Harvard College. 


They met not as they once had met, 

To laugh o'er many a jocund talc : 
But every pulse was beating low, 

And every cheek was cold and pale. 

There rose a fair but faded one, 

Who oft had cheered them with her song; 
She waved a mutilated arm, 

And silence held the listening throng. 

" Sweet friends," the gentle nymph began, 
"From opening bud to withering leaf, 

One common lot has bound us all, 

In every change of joy and grief. 

" While all around has felt decay, 

We rose in ever-living prime, 
With broader shade and fresher green, 

Beneath the crumbling step of Time. 

" When often by our feet has past 

Some biped, Nature's walking whim, 

Say, have we trimmed one awkward shape, 
Or lopped away one crooked limb ? 

" Go on, fair Science ; soon to thee 
Shall Nature yield her idle boast ; 

Her vulgar fingers formed a tree, 

But thou hast trained it to a post. 

" Go paint the birch's silver rind, 

And quilt the peach with softer down ; 

Up with the willow's trailing threads, 

I Ml" with the sunflower's radiant crown ! 


"Go, plant the lily on the shore, 

And set the rose among the waves, 

And bid the tropic hud unbind 

Its silken zone in arctic eaves ; 

" Bring bellows for the panting winds, 
Hang np a lantern by the moon, 

And give the nightingale a rite, 

And lend the eagle a balloon ! 

" I cannot smile, — the tide of scorn, 

That rolled through every bleeding vein, 

Comes kindling fiercer as it flows 

Back to its burning source again. 

" Again in every quivering leaf 

That moment's agony I feel, 
When limbs, that spurned the northern blast, 

Shrunk from the sacrilegious steel. 

" A curse upon the wretch who dared 

To crop us with his felon saw ! 
May every fruit his lip shall taste 

Lie like a bullet in Iris maw. 

" In every julep that he drinks, 

May gout, and bile, and headache be ; 

And when he strives to calm his pain, 
May colic mingle with his tea. 

" May nightshade cluster round his path, 

And thistles shoot, and brambles cling; 

May blistering ivy scorch his veins, 

And dogwood burn, and nettles sting. 


" On him may never shadow fall, 

When fever racks his throbbing brow, 

And his last shilling huy a rope 

To hang him on my highest bough ! " 

She spoke ; — the morning's herald beam 
Sprang from the bosom of the sea, 

And every mangled sprite returned 
In sadness to her wounded tree.* 


HERE was a sound of hurrying feet, 
A tramp on echoing stairs, 

There was a rush along the aisles, — 
It was the hour of prayers. 

And on, like Ocean's midnight wave, 

The current rolled along, 
"When, suddenly, a stranger form 
Was seen amidst the throng. 

He was a dark and swarthy man, 
That uninvited guest ; 

A faded coat of hottk'-^reen 

Was buttoned round his breast. 

* A little poem, on a similar occasion, may be found in 
the works of Swift, from which, perhaps, the idea was bor- 
rowed ; although 1 was as much surprised as amused to 
meet with it some time after writing the preceding lines. 


There was not one among them all 
Could say from whence lie came; 

Nor beardless boy, nor ancient man, 
Could tell that stranger's name. 

All silent as the sheeted dead, 

In spite of sneer and frown, 
Fast by a gray-haired senior's side 

lie sat him boldly down. 

There was a look of horror flashed 

From out the tutor's eyes ; 
When all around him rose to pray, 

The stranger did not rise ! 

A murmur broke along the crowd, 

The prayer was at an end ; 
With ringing heels and measured tread, 

A hundred forms descend. 

Through sounding aisle, o'er grating stair, 

The long procession poured, 
Till all were gathered on the seats 

Around the Commons board. 

That fearful stranger ! down he sat, 

Unasked, yet undismayed ; 
And on his lip a rising smile 

Of scorn or pleasure played. 

He took his hat and hung it up, 

With slow but earnest air ; 
He stripped his coat from off his back, 

And placed it on a chair. 


Then from his nearest neighbor's side 

A knife and plate he drew ; 
And, reaching out Ins hand again, 

lie took his teacup too. 

How fled the sugar from the bowl ! 

How sunk the azure cream ! 
They vanished like the shapes that float 

Upon a summer's dream. 

A long, long draught, — an outstretched hand, 

And crackers, toast, and tea, 
They faded from the stranger's touch, 

Like dew upon the sea. 

Then clouds were dark on many a brow, 

Fear sat upon their souls, 
And, in a bitter agony, 

They clasped their buttered rolls. 

A whisper trembled through the crowd, — 

Who could the stranger be ? 
And some were silent, for they thought 

A cannibal was he. 

What if the creature should arise, — 
For he was stout and tall, — 

And swallow down a sophomore, 
Coat, crow's-foot, cap, and all ! 

All sullenly the stranger rose ; 

They sat in mute despair ; 
He took his hat from oil' the peg, 

His coat from off the chair. 


Four freshmen fainted on the scut, 
Six swooned upon the floor; 

Yet on the fearful being passed, 
And shut the chapel door. 

There is full many a starving man, 
That walks in bottle green, 

But never more that hungry one 
In Commons-hall was seen. 

Yet often at the sunset hour, 

When tolls the evening bell, 

The freshman lingers on the steps, 

That frightful tale to tell. 



T was the stalwart butcher man, 
That knit his swarthy brow, 
And said the gentle Pig must die, 
And sealed it with a vow. 

And oh ! it was the gentle Pig 

Lay stretehed upon the ground, 

And ah ! it was the cruel knife 
His little heart that found. 

They took him then, those wicked men, 
They trailed him all along ; 

They put a stick between his lips, 
And through his heels a thong ; 



And round and round an oaken beam 
A hempen cord they flung, 

And, like a mighty pendulum, 
All solemnly he swung ! 

Now say thy prayers, thou sinful man, 
And think what thou hast done, 

And read thy catechism well, 
Thou bloody-minded one ; 

For if his sprite should walk by night, 

It better were for thee, 
That thou wert mouldering in the ground, 

Or bleacliing in the sea. 

It was the savage butcher then, 
That made a mock of sin, 

And swore a very wicked oath, 
He did not care a pin. 

It was the butcher's youngest son, — 
His voice was broke with sighs, 
And with his pocket-handkerchief 

He wiped his little eyes ; 

All young and ignorant was he, 

But innocent and mild, 
And, in hifl soft simplicity, 

Out spoke the tender child : — 

" O father, father, list to me ; 

The Pig is deadly >ick, 
And men have hung him by his heels, 

And fed him with a stick/' 


\i was the bloody butcher then, 

That Laughed as he would die, 
Vet did he soothe the sorrowing child, 

And hid him not to cry ; — 

" Nathan, Nathan, what 's a Pi<r, 

That thou shonldst weep and wail ! 

Come, hear tliee like a hatcher's child, 
And thon shalt liave his tail ! " 

It was the butcher's daughter then, 

So slender and so fair, 
That sobbed as if her heart would break, 

And tore her yellow hair ; 

And thus she spoke in thrilling tone, — 
Fast fell the tear-drops big ; — 

" All ! woe is me ! Alas ! Alas ! 

The Pig! The Pig ! The Pig ! " 

Then did her wicked father's lips 
Make merry with her woe, 

And call her many a naughty name, 
Because she whimpered so. 

Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones, 
In vain your tears are shed, 

Ye cannot wash his crimson hand, 
Ye cannot soothe the dead. 

The bright sun folded on his breast 

His robes of rosy flame, 
And softly over all the west 

The shades of evening came. 


He slept, and troops of murdered Pigs 
Were busy with his dreams ; 

Loud rang their wild, unearthly shrieks, 
Wide yawned their mortal seams. 

The eloek struck twelve ; the Dead hath heard ; 

He opened hoth his eyes, 
And sullenly lie shook his tail 

To lash the feeding flies. 

One quiver of the hempen cord, — 
One straggle and one hound, — 

With stiffened limb and leaden eye, 
The Pig was on the ground ! 

And straight towards the sleeper's house 

His fearful way he wended ; 
And hooting owl, and hovering hat, 

On midnight wing attended. 

Back flew the holt, up rose the latch, 

And open swung the door, 
And little mincing feet were heard 

Tat, pat along the floor. 

Two hoofs upon the sanded floor, 

And two upon the bed ; 
And they are breathing side by side, 

The living and the dead ! 

"Now wake, now wake, thou butcher man ! 

What makes thy check so pah' ! 
Take hold ! take hold ! thou dost not fear 

To clasp a spectre's tail?" 


Untwisted every winding coil ; 

The shuddering wretch took hold, 
All like an icicle it seemed, 

So tapering and so cold. 

" Thou com'st with me, thou butcher man ! " — 

He strives to loose his grasp, 
But, foster than the clinging vine, 

Those twining spirals clasp. 

And open, open swung the door, 

And, fleeter than the wind, 
The shadowy spectre swept before, 

The butcher trailed behind. 

Fast fled the darkness of the night, 

And morn rose faint and dim ; 
They called full loud, they knocked full long, 

They did not waken him. 

Straight, straight towards that oaken beam, 

A trampled pathway ran ; 
A ghastly shape was swinging there, — 

It was the butcher man. 


IT ! I did love her dearly, 

And gave her toys and rings, 
And I thought >he meant sincerely, 
When she took my pretty things. 


But her heart has grown as icy 
As a fountain in the fall, 

And her love, that was bo spicy, 
It did not last at all. 

I gave her once a locket, 

It was filled with my own hair, 
And she put it in her pocket 

With very special care. 
But a jeweller has got it, — 

He offered it to me, 
And another that is not it 

Around her neck I see. 

For my cooings and my hillings 

I do not now complain, 
But my dollars and my shillings 

Will never come again; 
They were earned with toil and sorrow, 

But I never told her that, 
And now I have to borrow, 

And want another hat. 

Think, think, thou cruel Emma, 

When thou shalt hear my woe, 

And know my sad dilemma, 
That thou hast made it so. 

Sec, see my heaver rusty, 

Look, look upon this hole, 

This coat is dim and dusty ; 

let it rend thy soul ! 

Before the gates of fashion 

1 daily bent my knee. 


But I Bought the shrine of passion, 
And found my idol, — thee. 

Though never love intenser 

Had bowed a soul before it, 

Thine eye was on the censer, 

And not the hand that bore it. 


SAW the curl of his waving lash, 

And the glance of his knowing eye, 

And I knew that he thought he was 
cutting a dash, 
As his steed went thundering by. 

And lie may ride in the rattling gig, 

Or nourish the Stanhope gay, 
And dream that he looks exceeding hig 

To the people that walk in the way ; 

But he shall think, when the night is still, 
On the stable-boy's gathering numbers, 

And the ghost of many a veteran hill 
Shall hover around his slumbers \ 

The gl lastly dun shall worry his sleep, 
And constables cluster around him, 

And he shall creep from the wood-hole deep 
Where their spectre eyes have found him ! 


Ay ! gather your reins, and crack your thong, 
And bid your steed go faster; 

He does not know, as he scrambles along, 
That he has a fool for his master ; 

And hurry away on your lonely ride, 

Nor deign from the mire to save mc ; 

I will paddle it stoutly at your side 

With the tandem that nature gave me ! 


HAT is a poet's love 1 — 

To write a girl a sonnet, 
To get a ring, or some such tiling, 
And fustianize upon it. 

What is a poet's fame 1 — 

Sad hints about his reason, 

And sadder praise from garreteer-. 
To he returned in season. 

Where go the poet's lines ? — 

Answer, ye evening tapers ! 

Ye auburn locks, ye golden curls, 

Speak from your folded papers ! 

Child of the ploughshare, smile ; 

Boy of the counter, grieve not, 
Though muses round thy trundle-bed 

Their hroidercd tissue weave not. 


The poet's future holds 

No civic wreath above him; 

Nor slated root', nor varnished chaise, 
Nor wife nor child to love him. 

Maid of the village inn, 

Who workest woe on satin, 

(The grass in black, the graves in green, 
The epitaph in Latin,) 

Trust not to them who say, 

In stanzas, they adore thee ; 

( ) rather Bleep in churchyard clay, 

With urns and cherubs o'er thee ! . 




THERE are times 

When all this fret and tumult that we 

Do seem more stale than to the sexton's 

His own dull chimes. 

Ding dong ! ding dong ! 

The world is in a simmer like a sea 
Over a pent volcano, — woe is me 
All the day long ! 


From crib to shroud ! 
Nurse o'er our cradles screameth Lullaby, 
And friends in hoots trump round us as we die, 

Snuffling aloud. 

At morning's call 
The small-voiced pug-dog welcomes in the sun. 
And flea-bit mongrels, wakening one by one, 

Give answer all. 

When evening dim 
Draws round us, then the lonely caterwaul, 
Tart solo, sour duet, and general squall, — 

These are our hymn. 

Women, with tongues 
Like polar needles, ever on the jar, — 
Men, plugless word-spouts, whose deep fountains are 

Within their lungs. 

Children, with drums 
Strapped round them by the fond paternal ass, 
Peripatetics with a blade of grass 

Between their thumbs. 

Vagrants, whose arts 
Have caged some devil in their mad machine, 
Which grinding, squeaks/with husky groans between, 

Come out by starts. 

Cockneys that kill 
Thin horses of a Sunday, — men, with clams, 
Hoarse as young bisons roaring for their dams 

From hill to hill. 


Soldiers, with guns; 
Making a nuisance of the blessed air, 
Child-crying bellmen, children in despair, 

Screeching for buns. 

Storms, thunders, waves ! 
Howl, crash, and bellow till ye get your fill ; 
Ye sometimes rest ; men never can be still 

But in their graves. 



\Y hath put on his jacket, and around 
His burning bosom buttoned it with stars. 
Here will I lay me on the velvet grass, 
That is like padding to earth's meagre 
And hold communion with the things about mc. 
Ah me ! how lovely is the golden braid 
That binds the skirt of night's descending robe ! 
The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads, 
Do make a music like to rustling satin, 
As the light breezes smooth their downy nap. 

I la ! what is this that rises to my touch, 
So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage 1 
It is, it is that deeply injured flower, 
Which boys do flout us with ; — but yet I love thee, 
Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout. 


Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright 
As these, thy puny brethren; and thy breath 
Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air; 
But now thou Beemest like a bankrupt beau, 
Stripped of his gaudy hues and essenees, 
And growing portly in his sober garments. 

Is that a swan that rides upon the water ? 

no, it is that other gentle bird, 

Which is the patron of our noble ealling. 

1 well remember, in my early years, 

When these young hands first closed upon a goose ; 

I have a sear upon my thimble finger, 

Which chronicles the hour of young ambition. 

My father was a tailor, and his father, 

And my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors ; 

They had an ancient goose, — it was an heir-loom 

From some remoter tailor of our race. 

It happened I did see it on a time 

When none was near, and I did deal with it, 

And it did burn me, — oh, most fearfully ! 

It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs, 
And leap elastic from the level counter, 
Leaving the petty grievances of earth, 
The breaking thread, the din of clashing Bhears, 
And all the needles that do wound the spirit, 
For such a pensive hour of soothing silence. 
Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress, 
Lavs bare her shady bosom ; — I can feel 
With all around me ; — I can hail the flowers 
That sprig earth's mantle, — and yon quiet bird. 
That ridea the stream, is to me as a brother. 
The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets, 


Where Nature stows away her loveliness. 
lint this unnatural posture of the legs 
Cramps my extended calves, and I must go 
Where I eau coil them in their wonted fashion. 


HERE was a giant in time of old, 
A mighty one was he ; 

He had a wife, but she was a scold, 
So he kept her shut in his mammoth fold; 
And he had children three. 

It happened to be an election day, 

And the giants were choosing a king; 
The people were not democrats -then, 
They did not talk of the rights of men, 
And all that sort of thing. 

Then the giant took his children three, 

And fastened them in the pen ; 
The children roared ; quoth the giant, "Be still! " 
And Dorchester Heights and Milton Hill 

Rolled back the sound again. 

Then he brought them a pudding stuffed with plums, 

As big as the State-House dome; 
Quoth he, " There 's something for you to eat ; 
So stop your mouths with your 'lection treat, 

And wait till Your dad comes home." 


So the giant palled him a chestnut stout, 

And whittled the boughs away ; 
The boys ;ui<l their mother Bet up a shout, 

Said he, " You're in, and you can't get out, 
Bellow as loud as you may/' 

Off he went, and he growled a tune 

As he strode the fields along ; 
'T is said a buffalo fainted away, 
And fell as cold as a lump of clay, 
When he heard the giant's song. 

But whether the story 's true or not, 

It is not for me to show ; 
There 's many a thing that \s twice as queer 
In somebody's lectures that we hear, 

And those are true, you know. 

What arc those' lone ones doing now, 
The wife and the children sad ? 

O, they are in a terrible rout, 

Screaming, and throwing their pudding about, 
Acting as they were mad. 

They flung it over to Roxbury hills, 

They flung it over the plain, 
And all over Milton and Dorchester too 
Great lumps of pudding the giants threw; 

They tumbled as thick as rain. 

Giant and mammoth have passed away, 
For ages have floated by ; 


The suet is hard as a marrow-bone, 

Ami every plum is turned to a stone, 
But there the puddings lie. 

And if, some pleasant afternoon, 

You '11 ask me out to ride, 
The whole of the story I will tell, 
And you shall sec where the puddings fell, 

And pay for the punch beside. 





T may be so, — perhaps thou hast 
A warm and loving heart ; 
I will not blame thee for thy face, 
Poor devil as thou art. 

That thing, thou fondly deem'st a nose, 
Unsightly though it be, — 

In spite of all the cold world's scorn, 
It may be much to thee. 

Those eyes, — among thine elder friends 
Perhaps they pass for bine, — 

No matter, — if a man can see, 
What more have eyes to do ? 

Thy mouth, — that fissure in thy face, 
By something like a chin, — 

May be a very useful place 
T<> put thy victual in 


I know thou hast a wife at home, 

I know thou hast a child, 
By that subdued, domestic smile 

Upon thy features mild. 

That wife sits fearless by thy side, 

That cherub on thy knee ; 
They do not shudder at thy looks, 

They do not shrink from thee. 

Above thy mantel is a hook, — 

A portrait once was there ; 
It was thine only ornament, — 

Alas ! that hook is bare. 

She begged thee not to let it go, 
She begged thee all in vain ; 

She wept, — and breathed a trembling prayer 
To meet it safe again. 

It was a bitter sight to see 

That picture torn away ; 
It was a solemn thought to think 

What all her friends would say ! 

And often in her calmer hours, 

And in her happy dreams, 
Fpon its long-deserted hook 

The absent portrait seems. 

Thy wretched infant turns his head 

In melancholy wise, 
And looks to meet the placid stare 

( >f those unbending eves. 


I never saw thee, lovely one, — 
Perchance I never may ; 

It is not often that we cross 
Sueh people in our way ; 

But if we meet in distant years, 
Or on some foreign shore, 

Sure I ean take my Bible oath, 
I Ve seen that faee before. 



ELL, Miss, I wonder where you live, 
I wonder what 's your name, 
I wonder how you came to be 
In sueh a stylish frame ; 
Perhaps you were a favorite ehild, 

Perhaps an only one ; 
Perhaps your friends were not aware 
You had your portrait done ! 

Yet you must be a harmless soul ; 

I cannot think that Sin 
Would care to throw his loaded dice, 

With such a stake to win ; 
I cannot think you would provoke 

The poet's wicked pen, 
Or make young women bite their lips, 

Or ruin line young men. 

9 2 


Pray, did you ever hear, my love, 
Of boys that go about, 

Who, for a very trifling sum, 

Will snip one's pieturc out 1 
I 'm not averse to red and white, 

But all things have their place, 
I think a profile cut in black 

Would suit your style of face ! 

I love sweet features ; I will own 

That I should like myself 
To see my portrait on a wall, 

Or bust upon a shelf; 
But nature sometimes makes one up 

Of such sad odds and ends, 
It really might be quite as well 

Hushed up among one's friends ! 


HE Comet ! He is on his way, 
And singing as he flies ; 
The whizzing planets shrink before 
The spectre of the skies ; 
Ah ! well may regal orbs burn blue, 

And satellites turn pale, 
Ten million cubic miles of head, 
Ten billion leagues of tail ! 

On, on by whistling spheres of light, 
He flashes and he flames; 

Tic turns not to the left nor right, 
He asks them not their names : 


One spurn from his demoniac heel, — 

Away, away they fly, 
Where darkness might be bottled up 

And sold for -• Tyrian dye." 

And what would happen to the land, 

And how would look the sea, 
If in the bearded devil's path 

Our earth should chance to be ? 
Full hot and high the sea would boil, 

Full red the forests gleam ; 
M- -thought I saw and heard it all 

In a dyspeptic dream ! 

I saw a tutor take his tube 

The Comet's course to spy ; 
I heard a scream, — the gathered rays 

Had stewed the tutor's eye; 
I saw a fort, — the soldiers all 

Were armed with goggles green ; 
Pop cracked the guns ! whiz flew the balls ! 

Bang went the magazine ! 

I saw a poet dip a scroll 

Each moment in a tub, 
I read upon the warping back, 

" The Dream of Beelzebub " ; 
He could not see his verses burn, 

Although his brain was fried, 
And ever and anon he bent 

To wet them as they dried. 

I saw the scalding pitch roll down 
The crackling, sweating pines, 



And streams of smoke, like water-spouts, 
Burst through the rumbling mines; 

I asked the firemen why they made 

Sueh noise about the town; 
They answered not, — but all the while 

The brakes went up and down. 

I saw a roasting pullet sit 
Upon a baking egg ; 

I saw a cripple scorch his hand 

Extinguishing bis leg ; 
I saw nine geese upon the wing 

Towards the frozen pole, 
And every mother's gosling fell 

Crisped to a crackling coal. 

I saw the ox that browsed the grass 

Writhe in the blistering rays, 
The herbage in his shrinking jaws 

Was all a fiery blaze ; 
I saw hugb fishes, boiled to rags, 

Bob through the bubbling brine; 
And thoughts of supper crossed my soul ; 

I bad been rash at mine. 

Strange sights ! strange sounds ! fearful dream ! 

Its memory haunts mc still, 
The steaming sea, the crimson glare, 

That wreathed each wooded hill ; 
Stranger ! if through thy reeling brain 

Such midnight visions sweep, 
Spare^ spare, Bpare thine evening meal, 

And sweet shall be thy sleep ! 



iIIE dinner-bell, the dinner-bell 
[a ringing loud and clear ; 
iSM& fi^f Through hill and plain, through street 

^r.-Ji'i and lane, 

It echoes far and near; 
From curtained hall and whitewashed stall, 

Wherever men can hide, 
Like bursting waves from ocean eaves, 

They tioat upon the tide. 

I smell the smell of roasted meat! 

I hear the hissing fry ! 
The beggars know where they can go, 

But where, O where shall I ? 
At twelve o'clock men took my hand, 

At two they only stare, 
And eye me with a fearful look, 

As if I were a bear ! 

The poet lays his laurels -down, 

And hastens to his greens; 
The happy tailor quits his goose, 

To riot on his beans ; 
The weary cobbler snaps his thread, 

The printer leaves his pi ; 
His very devil hath a home, 

lint what, O what have I ? 

Methinks I hear an angel voice, 

That Boftly » ema to say : 
u Tale stranger, all may yet he well, 

Then wipe thy tears away; 


Erect thy head, and cock thy hat, 

And follow me afar, 
And thou slialt have a jolly meal, 

And charge it at the bar." 

I hear the voice ! I go ! I go ! 

Prepare your meat and wine ! 
They little heed their future need, 

Who pay not when they dine. 
Give me to-day the rosy bowl, 

Give me one golden dream, — 
To-morrow kick away the stool, 

And dangle from the beam I 


T was a tall young oysterman lived by 
the river-side, 
His shop was just upon the bank, his 
boat was on the tide ; 
The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight 

and slim, 
Lived over on the other bank, right opposite to 

It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely 

Upon a moonlight evening, a sitting in the 

shade ; 
He saw her wave her handkereliief, as much as if 

to say, 
" I 'm wide awake, young oysterman, and all the 

folks away." 


Then up arose the ovsterman, and to himself said 

" I guess I '11 leave the skill' at home, for fear that 

folks should see ; 
I read it in the Btory-book, that, for to kiss his dear, 
Leander swam the Hellespont, — and I will swim 

this here." 

And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the 

shining stream, 
And he has clambered up the hank, all in the 

moonlight gleam ; 

there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as 

soft as rain, — 
But they have heard her father's step, and in he 
leaps again ! 

Out spoke the ancient fisherman, — " O what was 

that, my daughter 1 " 
" 'T was nothing hut a pehble, sir, I threw into the 

"And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles 

off so fast 1 " 
" It 's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that 's been a 

swimming past." 

Out spoke the ancient fisherman, — " Now bring 
me my harpoon ! 

1 '11 get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow 


Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow- 
white land), 

Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like sea- 
weed on a clam. 

9 8 


Alas for those two loving ones ! she waked not 

from her swound, 
And he was taken with the cramp, and in the 

waves was drowned ; 
But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their 

And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids 

down below. 


HERE arc three ways in which men take 
One's money from his purse, 
And very hard it is to tell 

Which of the three is worse ; 
But all of them are bad enough 
To make a b'ody curse. 

You 're riding out some pleasant day, 
And counting up your gains ; 

A fellow jumps from out a bush, 

And takes your horse's reins, 

Another hints some words about 
A bullet in your brains. 

It 's hard to meet such pressing friends 

In such a lonely spot ; 
It 's very hard to lose your cash, 

But harder to be shot ; 
And so you take your wallet out, 

Though you would rather not. 


Perhaps you 're going out to dine, — 

Some tilth v creature I 
You '11 hear about the cannon-ball 

That carried off his pegs, 
And says it is a dreadful thing 
For men to lose their legs. 

He tells you of his starving wife, 

His children to be fed, 
Poor little, lovely innocents, 

All clamorous for bread, — 
And so you kindly help to put 

A bachelor to bed. 

You 're sitting on your window-seat, 

Beneath a cloudless moon ; 
You hear a sound, that seems to wear 

The semblance of a tune, 
As if a broken fife should strive 

To drown a cracked bassoon. 

And nearer, nearer still, the tide 

Of music seems to come, 
There 's something like a human voice, 

And something like a drum ; 
Y"ou sit in speechless agony, 

Until your ear is numb. 

Poor " home, sweet home " should seem to be 

A very dismal place ; 
Your " auld acquaintance " all at once 

Is altered in the face ; 
Their discords sting through Burns and Moore, 

Like hedgehogs dressed in lace. 


You think they are crusaders, sent 
From some infernal clime, 

To pluck the eyes of Sentiment, 

And dock the tail of Rhyme, 

To crack the voice of Melody, 

And break the legs of Time. 

But hark ! the air again is still, 
The music all is ground, 

And silence, like a poultice, conies 
To heal the blows of sound ; 

It cannot be, — it is, — it is, — 
A hat is going round ! 

No ! Pay the dentist when he leaves 
A fracture in your jaw, 

And pay the owner of the bear, 

That stunned you with his paw, 

And buy the lobster that has had 
Your knuckles in his claw ; 

But if you are a portly man, 

Put on your fiercest frown, 

And talk about a constable 

To turn them out of town ; 

Then close your sentence with an oath, 
And shut the window down ! 

And if you are a slender man, 
Not big enough for that, 

Or, if you cannot make a speech, 
Because you are a flat, 

Go very quietly and drop 
A button in the hat ! 



[HE stars arc rolling in the sky, 
The earth rolls on below, 
jgw And we can feel the rattling wheel 

Revolving as we go. 
Then tread away, my gallant boys, 

And make the axle fly ; 
Why should not wheels go round about, 
Like planets in the sky ? 

Wake up, wake up, my duck-legged man, 

And stir your solid pegs ! 
Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend, 

And shake your spider legs ; 
What though you 're awkward at the trade, 

There f B time enough to learn, — 
So lean upon the rail, my lad, 

And take another turn. 

They \ r e built us up a noble wall, 

To keep the vulgar out ; 
We Ve nothing in the world to do, 

But just to walk about ; 
So faster, now, you middle men, 

And try to beat the ends, — 
It 's pleasant work to ramble round 

Among one's honest friends. 

Here, tread upon the long man's toes, 

He sha'n't be lazy here, — 
And punch the little fellow's ribs, 

And tweak that lubber's ear, — 


He 's lost them both, — don't pull his hair, 
Because he wears a scratch, 

But poke him in the further eye, 
That is n't in the patch. 

Hark ! fellows, there 'a the supper-bell, 

And so our work is done ; 
It 's pretty sport, — suppose we take 

A round or two for fun ! 
If ever they should turn me out, 

When I have better grown, 
Now hang me, but I mean to have 

A treadmill of my own ! 


'M not a chicken ; I have seen 

Full many a chill September, 
And though I was a youngster then, 
That gale I well remember ; 
The day before, my kite-string snapped, 

And I, my kite pursuing, 
The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat ; — 
For me two storms were brewing ! 

It came as quarrels sometimes do, 

When married folks get clashing ; 
There was a heavy sigh or two, 

Before the fire was flashing, — 
A little stir among the clouds, 

Before they rent asunder, — 
A little rocking of the trees, 

And then came on the thunder. 


Lord ! how the ponds and rivers boiled, 

And how the shingles rattled! 
And oaks were Bcattered on the ground, 

As if the Titans battled; 
And all above was in a howl, 

And all below a clatter, — 
The earth was like a frying-pan, 

Or some such hissing matter. 

It chanced to be our washing-day, 

And all our things were drying : 
The storm came roaring through the lines, 

And set them all a flying; 
I BaW the shirts and petticoats 

Go riding off like witches ; 
I lost, ah ! bitterly I wept, — 

I lost my Sunday breeches ! 

I saw them straddling through the air, 

Alas ! too late to win them ; 
I saw them chase the clouds, as if 

The devil had been in them ; 
They were my darlings and my pride, 

My boyhood's only riches, — 
" Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried, — 

" My breeches ! O my breeches ! " 

That night I saw them in my dreams, 

How changed from what I knew them ! 
The dews had steeped their faded threads, 

The winds had whistled through them ! 
I saw the wide and ghastly rents 

AVhere demon claws had torn them; 
A hole was in their amplest part, 

As if an imp had worn them. 


I have had many happy years, 

And tailors kind and clever, 
But those young pantaloons have gone 

Forever and forever! 
And not till fate has cut the last 

Of all my earthly stitches, 
This aching heart shall cease to mourn 

My loved, my long-lost breeches ! 


WROTE some lines once on a time 
In wondrous merry mood, 

And thought, as usual, men would say 
They were exceeding good. 

They were so queer, so very queer, 
I laughed as I would die ; 

Albeit, in the general way, 
A sober man am I. 

I called my servant, and lie came ; 

Sow kind it was of him, 
To mind a slender man like me, 

He of the mighty limb ! 

" These to the printer," I exclaimed, 
And, in my humorous way, 

I added, (as a trilling jest,) 

" There '11 be the devil to pay." 


lie took the paper, and I Watched, 
And saw him peep within; 

At the first line lie read, his face 
Was all upon the grin. 

He read the next ; the grin grew broad, 

And shot from ear to ear ; 
lie read the third ; a chuckling noise 

I now began to hear. 

The fourth ; he broke into a roar ; 

The fifth ; his waistband split ; 
The sixth ; he burst five buttons off, 

And tumbled in a fit. 

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eve, 
I watched that wretched man, 

And since, I never dare to write 
As funny as I can. 


HE folks, that on the first of May- 
Wore winter-coats and hose, 
Began to say, the first of June, 
U " Good Lord ! how hot it grows ! " 

At last two Fahrcnheits blew up, 

And killed two children small, 
And one barometer shot dead 
A tutor with its ball ! 


Now all day long the locusts sang 

Among the Leafless trees; 
Three new hotels warped inside out, 

The pumps could onlv wheeze ; 
And ripe old wine, that twenty years 

Had cobwebbed o'er in vain, 
Came spouting through the rotten corks, 

Like Joly's best Champagne ! 

The "Worcester locomotives did 

Their trip in half an hour; 
The Lowell cars ran forty miles 

Before they checked the power ; 
Roll brimstone soon became a drug, 

And loco-focos fell ; 
All asked for ice, but everywhere 

►Saltpetre was to sell. 

Plump men of mornings ordered tights, 

But, ere the scorching noons, 
Their candle-moulds had grown as loose 

As Cossack pantaloons ! 
The dogs ran mad, — men could not try 

If water they would choose ; 
A horse fell dead, — he only left 

Four red-hot, rusty shoes ! 

But soon the people could not bear 

The slightest hint of fire; 
Allusions to caloric drew 

A flood of savage ire; 
The leaves on heat were all torn out 

From every book at school, 
And many blackguards kicked and caned. 

Because they said, " Keep cool ! " 



The gas-light companies were mobbed, 

The bakers all were shot, 
The penny press began to talk 

Of Lynching Doctor Xott ; 
And all about the warehouse steps 

Were angry men in droves, 
Crashing and splintering through the doors 

To smash the patent stoves ! 

The abolition men and maids 

Were tanned to sueh a hue, 
You scarce could tell them from their friends, 

Unless their eyes were blue ; 
And, when I left, society 

Had burst its ancient guards, 
And Brattle Street and Temple Place 

Were interchanging cards ! 


ES, dear departed, cherished days, 
Could Memory's hand restore 
Your morning light, your evening rays 
From Time's gray urn once more, — 
Then might this restless heart be still, 

This straining eve might close, 
And Hope her fainting pinions fold, 
While the fair phantoms ruse. 

But, like a child in ocean's arms, 

We Btrive against the stream, 
Each moment farther from the shore 

Where life's young fountains gleam ; — 


Each moment fainter wave the fields, 

And widef rolls the sea ; 
The mist grows dark, — the sun goes down, 

Day breaks, — and where are we 1 


EE how yon flaming herald treads 
The ridged and rolling waves, 
As, crashing o'er their crested heads, 
She bows her surly slaves ! 
With foam before and fire behind, 

She rends the clinging sea, 
That flies before the roaring wind, 
Beneath her hissing lee. 

The morning spray, like sea-born flowers, 

With heaped and glistening bells, 
Falls rounds her fast, in ringing showers, 

With every wave that swells ; 
And, burning o'er the midnight deep, 

In lurid fringes thrown, 
The living gems of ocean sweep 

Along her flashing zone. 

With clashing wheel, and lifting keel, 

And smoking torch on high, 
When winds are loud, and billows reel, 

She thunders foaming by ; 
When seas arc silent and serene, 

With even beam she glides, 
The sunshine glimmering through the green 

That skirts her gleaming sides. 



Now, like a wild nymph, far apart 

She veils her shadowy form, 
The beating of her restless heart 

Still Bounding through the storm; 
Now answers, like a courtly dame, 

The reddening surges o'er, 
With flying scarf of spangled flame, 

The Pharos of the shore. 

To-night yon pilot shall not sleep, 

Who trims his narrowed sail ; 
To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep 

Her broad breast to the pile ; 
And many a foresail, scooped and strained, 

Shall break from yard and stay, 
Before this smoky wreath has stained 

The rising mist of day. 

Hark ! hark ! I hear yon whistling shroud, 

I sec yon quivering mast ; 
The black throat of the hunted cloud 

Is panting forth the blast ! 
An hour, and, whirled like winnowing chaff, 

The giant surge shall fling 
His tresses o'er yon pennon staff, 

White as the sea-bird's wing ! 

Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep ; 

Nor wind nor wave shall tire 
Those fleshlcss arms, whose pulses leap 

With floods of living fire ; 
Sleep on, — and, when the morning light 

Streams o'er the shining bay, 
O think of those for whom the night 

Shall never wake in day ! 



MUST leave thee, lady sweet ! 

Months shall waste before we meet; 

Winds arc fair, and sails are spread, 

Anchors leave their ocean bed ; 
Ere this Bhining day grow dark, 
Skies shall gird my shoreless hark ; 
Through thy tears, O lady mine, 
Read thy lover's parting line. 

When the first sad sun shall set, 
Thou shalt tear thy locks of jet ; 
When the morning Btar shall rise, 
Thou shalt wake with weeping eyes ; 
When the second sun goes down, 
Thou more train] nil shalt he grown, 
Taught too well that wild despair 
Dims thine eyes, and spoils thy hair. 

All the first unquiet week 

Thou shalt wear a smilelcss check ; 

In the first month's second half 

Thou shalt once attempt to laugh ; 

Then in Pickwick thou shalt dip, 

Slightly puckering round the lip, • 

Till at last, in sorrow's spite, 

Samuel makes thee laugh outright. 

While the first seven mornings last, 
Round thy chamber bolted fast, 
Many a youth shall fume and pout, 
" Hang the girl, she 's always out ! " 


While the second week goes round, 
Vainly Bhall they ring and pound ; 
When the third week shall begin, 
« Martha, let the creature in." 

Now once more the flattering throng 
Round thee flock with smile and song, 
But thy lips, un weaned as yet, 
Lisp, " 0, how can I forget!" 
Men and devils both contrive 
Traps for catching girls alive ; 
Eve was duped, and Helen kissed, — 
How, O how can you resist \ 

First be careful of your fan, 
Trust it not to youth or man ; 
Love has filled a pirate's sail 
( M'tcii with its perfumed gale. 
Mind your kerchief most of all, 
Fingers touch when kerchiefs fall ; 
Shorter ell than mercers clip 
Is the space from hand to lip. 

Trust not such as talk in tropes, 
Full of pistols, daggers, ropes ; 
All the hemp that Russia bears 
Scarce would answer lovers' prayers; 
Never thread was spun so fine, 
Never spider stretched the line, 
Would not hold the lovers true 
That would really swing for you. 

Fiercely some shall storm and swear, 
Beating breasts in black despair; 

ii2 SONG. 

Others murmur with a sigh, 
You must melt, or they will die; 
Painted words on empty lies, 

Grabs with wings like butterflies ; 
Let them die, and welcome, too ; 
Pray what better could they do ? 

Fare thee well, if years efface 
From thy heart love's burning trace, 
Keep, O keep that hallowed scat 
From the tread of vulgar feet ; 
If the blue lips of the sea 
Wait with icy kiss for me, 
Let not thine forget the vow, 
Sealed how often, Love, as now. 



FEB. I, 1842. 

IIE stars their early vigils keep, 

The silent hours arc near, 
When drooping eves forget to weep, — 
Yet still we linger here ; 
And what — the passing churl may a>k — 

Can claim such wondrous power, 
That Toil forgets his wonted ta>k, 
And Love his promised hour 1 

SONG. 113 

The Irish harp no longer thrills, 

( )r breathes a fainter tone ; 
The clarion blast from Scotland's hills, 

Alas ! no more is blown ; 
And Passion's burning lip bewails 

Her Harold's wasted fire, 
Still lingering o'er the dust that veils 

The Lord of England's lyre. 

But grieve not o'er its broken strings, 

Nor think its soul hath died, 
While yet the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

As once o'er Avon's side; — 
"While gentle summer sheds her bloom, 

And dewy blossoms wave, 
Alike o'er , Juliet's storied tomb 

And Nelly's nameless grave. 

Thou glorious island of the sea ! 

Though wide the wasting flood 
That parts our distant land from thee, 

We claim thy generous blood ; 
Nor o'er thy far horizon springs 

One hallowed star of fame, 
But kindles, like an angel's wings, 

Our western skies in flame ! 




OME back to your mother, yc children, 

for shame, 
Who have wandered like truants, for 

riches or fame ! 

With a smile on her face, and a Bprig in her cap, 
She calls you to feast from her bountiful lap. 

Come out from your alleys, your courts, and your 

And breathe, like young eagles, the air of our plains ; 
Take a whiff from our fields, and your excellent 

Will declare it 's all nonsense insuring your lives. 

Come you of the law, who can talk, if you please, 
Till the man of the moon will allow it 's a chee* 
And leave " the old lady, that never tells lies," 
To sleep with her handkerchief over her eyes. 

Ye healers of men, for a moment decline 

Your feats in the rhubarb and ipecac line; 

While you shut up your turnpike, your neighbors 

can go, 
The old roundabout road, to the regions below. 

You clerk, on whose ears are a couple of pens, 
And whose head is ail ant-hill of units and tens : 
Though Plato denies you, we welcome you still 
As a featherlesfl biped, in spite of your quill. 


Poor drudge of the city! how happy he feels, 
With tin.' burs on his legs, and the grass at his 

heels ! 
No dodger behind, his bandannas to share, 

No constable grumbling, " You must n't walk 

In yonder green meadow, to memory dear, 

He slaps a mosquito and brushes a tear; 

The dew-drops hang round him on blossoms and 

He breathes but one sigh for his youth and his boots. 

There stands the old school-house, hard by the old 

church ; 
That tree at its side had the flavor of birch ; 
I ) Bweet were the days of his juvenile tricks, 
Though the prairie of youth had so many "big 


By the side of yon river he weeps and he slumps, 
The boots rill with water, as if they were pumps, 
Till, sated with rapture, he steals to his bed, 
With a glow in Ins heart and a cold in his head. 

'T is past, — he is dreaming, — I see him again ; 
The ledger returns as by Legerdemain ; 

His neckcloth is damp with an easterly flaw, 
And he holds in his fingers an omnibus straw. 

Tie dreams the chill gust is a blossomy gale, 
That the straw is a rose from his dear native vale; 
And murmurs, unconscious of space and of time, 
"A 1. Extra-super. Ah, is n't it prime ! " 


O what arc the prizes we perish to win 

To the first little " shiner " we caught with a pin ! 

No soil upon earth is so dear to our eyes 
As the soil we first stirred in terrestrial pies ! 

Then come from all parties, and parts, to our feast : 
Though not at the " Astor," we '11 give you at least 
A bite at an apple, a seat on the grass, 
And the best of old — water — at nothing a glass. 


6 B K SOCIETY, 1844. 

WAS thinking last night, as I sat in the 

With the charmingest prospect of cin- 
ders and stars, 
Next Thursday is — bless me ! — how hard it will 

If that cannibal president calls upon me ! 

There is nothing on earth that he will not devour, 
From a tutor in seed to a freshman in flower ; 
No sage is too gray, and no youth is too green, 
And you can't be too plump, though you 're never 
too lean. 

While others enlarge on the boiled and the roast, 
He serves a raw clergyman up with a toast, 
Or catches some doctor, quite tender and young, 
And basely insists on a bit of his tongue. 


Poor victim, prepared for his classical spit, 
With a Btuffing of praise, and a basting of wit, 

You may twitch at your collar, and wrinkle your 

But you 're up on your legs, and you 're in for it 


O think of your friends, — they are waiting to hear 
Those jokes that are thought so remarkably queer; 
And all the Jack Homers of metrical buns 
Are prying and fingering to pick out the puns. * 

Those thoughts which, like chickens, will always 

thrive best 
When reared by the heat of the natural nest, 
Will perish if hatched from their embryo dream 
In the mist and the glow of convivial steam. 

pardon me, then, if I meekly retire, 
With a very small Hash of ethereal fire ; 
No rubbing will kindle your Lucifer match, 

If the fiz does not follow the primitive scratch. 

Dear friends, who are listening so sweetly the while, 
With your lips double reefed in a snug little smile, — 

1 leave you two fables, both drawn from the deep, — 
The shells you can drop, but the pearls you may 


The fish called the Flounder, perhaps you may 

Bias one side for use and another for show; 
< )nc side for the public, a delicate brown, 
And one that is white, which he always keeps down. 


A very young flounder, the flattest of flats, 

(And they're none of them thicker than opera hats,) 

Was speaking more freely than charity taught 

Of a friend and relation that just had been caught. 

"My ! what an exposure ! just see what a Bight ! 
I blush for my race, — he is showing his white! 
Such spinning and wriggling, — why, what does 

he wish 1 
How painfully small to respectable fish ! " 

Then said an old Sculfin, — "My freedom ex- 

But you "re playing the cobbler with holes in your 
shoes ; 

Your brown side is up, — but just wait till you 're 

And you '11 find that all flounders are white on one 

There 's a slice near the Pickerel's pectoral tins, 
Where the thorax leaves off and the venter begins; 
Which his brother, survivor of fish-hooks and lines, 
Though fond of his family, never declines. 

He loves his relations ; he feels they '11 be missed ; 
But that one little titbit he cannot resist ; 
So your bait may be swallowed, no matter how fast, 
For you catch your next fish with a piece of the last. 

And thus, survivor, whose merciless fate 
Is to take the next hook with the president's bait, 
You are lost while you snatch from the end of his line 
The morsel he rent from this bosom of mine ! 

SONG. u 9 



HEALTH to dear woman ! She bids 

us untwine, 
From the cup it encircles, the fast-cling- 
ing vine ; 

But her cheek in its crystal with pleasure will glow, 
And mirror its bloom in the bright wave below. 

A health to sweet woman ! The days are no more 
When she watched for her lord till the revel was o'er, 
And smoothed the white pillow, and blushed when 

he came, 
As she pressed her cold lips on his forehead of flame. 

Alas for the loved one ! too spotless and fair 
The joys of his banquet to chasten and share; 
Her eve Lost its light that his goblet might shine, 
And the rose of her cheek was dissolved in his wine. 

Joy smiles in the fountain, health flows in the rills, 
As their ribbons of silver unwind from the hills; 
They breathe not the mist of the bacchanal's dream, 
But the lilies of innocence float on their stream. 

Then a health and a welcome to woman once more ! 
She brings us a passport that laughs at our door; 
Tt is written on crimson, — its letters arc pearls, — 

It is countersigned Nature. So, room for the 

Girls ! 




l^ggjgjjHEY bid me strike the idle strings, 
As if my summer days 
Had Bhaken sunbeams from their wings 
To warm my autumn lays ; 
They bring to me their painted urn, 

As if it were not time 
To lift my gauntlet and to spurn 

The lists of boyish rhyme ; 
And, were it not that I have still 

Some weakness in my heart 
That clings around my stronger will 

And pleads for gentler art, 
Perchance I had not turned away 

The thoughts grown tame with toil, 
To cheat this lone and pallid ray, 
That wastes the midnight oil. 

Alas ! with every year I feel 

Some roses leave my brow; 
Too young for wisdom's tardy seal, 

Too old for garlands now ; 
Yet, while the dewy breath of spring 

Steals o'er the tingling air, 
And spreads and tans each emerald wing 

The forest soon shall wear, 
How bright the opening year would seem, 

Had I one look like thine. 
To meet me when the morning beam 

Unseals these lids of mine I 


Too long I bear this lonely lot, 
That bids my heart run wild 

To press the lips that love me not, 
To elasp the stranger's child. 

How oft beyond the dashing seas, 

Amidst those royal bowers, 
Where danced the lilacs in the breeze, 

And swung the chestnut-flowers, 
I wandered like a wearied slave 

Whose morning task is done, 
To watch the little hands that gave 

Their whiteness to the sun ; 
To revel in the bright young eyes, 

Whose lustre sparkled through 
The sable fringe of Southern skies 

Or gleamed in Saxon blue ! 
How oft I heard another's name 

Called in some truant's tone; 
Sweet accents ! which I longed to claim, 

To learn and lisp my own ! 

Too soon the gentle hands, that pressed 

The ringlets of the child, 
Are folded on the faithful breast 

Where first he breathed and smiled ; 
Too oft the clinging arms untwine, 

The melting lips forget, 
And darkness veils the bridal shrine 

Where wn-aths and torches met; 
If Heaven but Leaves a single thread 

Of Hope's dissolving chain, 
Even when her parting plumes are spread, 

It bids them fold again ; 


The cradle rocks beside the tomb ; 

The cheek now changed and chill 
Smiles on us in the morning bloom 

Of one that loves us still. 

Sweet image ! I have done thee wrong 

To claim this destined lay ; 
The leaf that asked an idle song 

Must bear my tears away. 
Yet, in thy memory shouldst thou keep 

This else forgotten strain, 
Till years have taught thine eyes to weep, 

And flattery's voice is vain ; 
O then, thou fledgling of the nest, 

Like the long-wandering dove, 
Thy weary heart may faint for rest, 

As mine, on changeless love ; 
And while these sculptured lines retrace 

The hours now dancing by, 
This vision of thy girlish grace 

May cost thee, too, a sigh. 


LOWLY the mist o'er the meadow was 
Bright on the dewy buds glistened the 
When from his couch, while his children were 

Rose the bold rebel and shouldered bi> gun. 


Waving her golden veil 

Over the silent dale, 
Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire ; 

Hushed was his parting sigh, 

While from his noble eye 
Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire. 

On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springing 

( almly the first-bom of glory have met ; 
Hark ! the death-volley around them is ringing! 
Look ! with their life-blood the young grass is wet ! 

Faint is the feeble breath, 

Murmuring low in death, 
u Tell to our sons how their fathers have died " ; 

Nerwless the iron hand, 

Raised for its native land, 
Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side. 

Over the hill-sides the wild knell is tolling, 

From their for hamlets the yeomanry come ; 
As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst roll- 
Circles the beat of the mustering drum. 
Fast on the soldier's path 
Darken the waves of wrath, 
Long have they gathered and loud shall they fall ; 
Red glares the musket's flash, 
Sharp rings the rifle's crash, 
Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall. 

Gaylv the plume of the horseman was dancing, 
Never to shadow his cold brow again ; 

Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing, 
Keeking and panting he droops on the rein; 



Pale is the lip of scorn, 
Voiceless the trumpet horn, 
Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high ; 
Many a belted breast 

Low on the turf shall rest, 
Ere the dark hunters the herd have passed by. 

Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is raving, 
Hocks where the weary floods murmur and wail, 
Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving, 
Heeled with the echoes that rode on the gale ; 

Far as the tempest thrills 

Over the darkened hills, 
Far as the sunshine streams over the plain, 

Roused by the tyrant band, 

Woke all the mighty land, 
Girded for battle, from mountain to main. 

Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying ! 

Shroudless and tomblcss they sunk to their rest, — 
While o'er their ashes the starry fold flying 

Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest. 

Borne on her Northern pine, 

Long o'er the foaming brine 
Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun ; 

Heaven keep her ever free, 

Wide as o'er land and sea 
Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won ! 



more the summer floweret charms, 
The leaves will soon be sere, 
And Autumn folds his jewelled arms 
Around the dying year ; 
80, ere the waning seasons claim 

Our leafless groves awhile, 
With golden wine and glowing flame 
We '11 crown our lonely isle. 

Once more the merry voices sound 

Within the antlercd hall, 
And long and loud the baying hounds 

Return the hunter's call ; 
And through the woods, and o'er the hill, 

And far along the bay, 
The driver's horn is sounding shrill, — 

Up, sportsmen, and away ! 

No bars of steel, or walls of stone, 

Our little empire bound, 
But, circling with his azure zone, 

The sea runs foaming round ; 
The whitening wave, the purpled skies, 

The blue and lifted shore, 
Braid with their dim and blending dyes 

Our wide horizon o'er. 

And who will leave the grave debate 
That shakes the smoky town, 

To rule amid our island-state, 

And wear our oak-leaf crown? 


And who will be awhile content 

To hunt our woodland game, 
And leave the vulgar pack that scent 
The reeking track of fame j 

Ah, who that shares in toils like these 

Will pigh not to prolong 
Our days beneath the broad-leaved trees, 

Our nights of mirth and BOUg ' 
Then leave the dust of noisy streets, 

Ye outlaws of the wood, 
And follow through his green retreats 

Your noble Kobin Hood. 


HERE, O where are the visions of morn- 

Fresh as the dews of our prime 1 
Gone, like tenants that quit without 

Down the back entry of time. 

Where, O where are life's lilies and roses, 
Nursed iu the golden dawn's smile ! 

Dead as tbe bulrushes round little Moset, 
On the old banks of the Nile. 

Where are the Marys, and Anns, and Elizas, 

Loving and lovely of yore ' 
Look in the columns of old Advertisers, — 

Married and dead by tbe score. 


Where the gray eoitS and the ten-year-old fillies, 

Saturday's triumph and joy I 
Gone like our friend «ra2«? mmw Aclnlles, 

Homer's ferocious old boy. 

Die-aw^y dreams of ecstatic emotion, 
Hoped like young eagles at play, 

Vows of unheard of and endless devotion, 
How ye have faded away ! 

Yet, though the ebbing of Time's mighty river 

Leave our young blossoms to die, 
Let him roll smooth in his current forever, 
Till the last pebble is dry. 



HEX the Puritans came over, 

Our hills and swamps to clear, 
The woods were full of catamounts, 
And Indians red as deer, 
With tomahawks and Bcalping-knives, 

That make folks' heads look queer ; — 
O the ship from England used to bring; 
A hundred wigs a year ! 

The crows came cawing through the air 
To pluck the pilgrims' corn, 

The bears came Bnuffing round the door 
Whene'er a babe was born, 


The rattlesnakes were bigger round 

Than the but of the old rain's horn 

The deacon blew at meeting time 
On every " Sabbath " morn. 

But soon they knocked the wigwams down, 

And pine-tree trunk and limb 
Began to sprout among the leaves 

In shape of steeples slim ; 
And out the little wharves were stretched 

Along the ocean's rim, 
And up the little school-house shot 

To keep the boys in trim. 

And, when at length the College rose, 

The sachem cocked his eye 
At every tutor's meagre ribs 

Whose coat-tails whistled by : 
But when the Greek and Hebrew words 

Came tumbling from their jaws, 
The copper-colored children all 

Ran screaming to the squaws. 

And who was on the Catalogue 

When college was begun? 
Two nephews of the President, 

And the Professor's son ; 
(They turned a little Indian by, 

As brown as any bun ;) 
Lord ! how the seniors knocked about 

The freshman class of one ! 

They had not then the dainty things 
That commons now afibrd, 


But succotash and homony 

Were smoking on the board ; 

They did not rattle round in gigs, 
Or dash in Long-tail bines, 

Bnt always on Commencement days 
The tutors blacked their shoes. 

God bless the ancient Puritans ! 

Their lot was hard enough ; 
But honest hearts make iron arms, 

And tender maids arc tough ; 
So love and faith have formed and fed 

( )ur true-born Yankee stuff, 
And keep the kernel in the shell 

The British found so rough ! 


N narrowest girdle, reluctant Muse, 
In closest frock and Cinderella shoes, 
Bound to the foot-lights for thy brief 
One zephyr step, and then dissolve away ! 

Short is the space that gods and men can spare 
To Song's twin brother when she is not there. 
Let others water every lusty line, 
As Homer's heroes did their purple wine ; 

* Read at the Annual Dinner of the * B K Society, at 
Cambridge, August 24, 1845. 


Pierian revellers ! Know in strains like these 
The native juice, the real honest squeeze, — 
Strains that, diluted to the twentieth power, 
In yon grave temple* might have tilled an hour. 

Small room for Fancy's many-chorded lyre, 

For Wit's bright rockets with their trains of fire, 

For Pathos, Straggling vainly to surprise 

The iron tutor's tear-denying eves, 

For Mirth, whose finger with delusive wile 

Turns the grim key of many a rusty smile, 

For Satire, emptying his corrosive flood 

On hissing Folly's gas-exhaling brood, 

The pun, the fun, the moral and the joke, 

The hit, the thrust, the pugilistic poke, — 

Small space for these, so pressed by niggard Time, 

Like that false matron, known to nursery rhyme, — 

Insidious Morcy, — scarce her tale begun, 

Ere listening infants weep the story done. 

had we room to rip the mighty bags 

That Time, the harlequin, has stuffed with rags ! 

Grant us one moment to unloose the strings, 

While the old graybeard shuts his leather wings. 
But what a heap of motley trash appears 
Crammed in the bundles of successive years ! 
As the lost rustic on some festal day 
Stares through the concourse in its vast array, — 
Where in one cake a throng of faces runs, 
All stuck together like a sheet of buns, — 
And throws the bait of some unheeded name, 
Or shoots a wink with most uncertain aim, 

* The Annual Poem is always delivered in the neighbor- 
ing church. 


So roams my vision, wandering over all, 

And strives to choose, but knows not where to fall. 

Skins of flayed authors, — husks of dead reviews, — 
The turn-coat's clothes, — the office-seeker's shoes, — 
Scraps from cold feasts, where conversation runs 
Through mouldy toasts to oxidated puns, 
And grating songs a listening crowd endures, 
Rasped from the throats of bellowing amateurs ; — 
Sermons, whose writers played such dangerous 

Their own hcresiarchs called them heretics, 
(Strange that one term such distant poles should 

The Priestleyan's copper and the Puscyan's zinc ;) — 
Poems that shutHe with superfluous legs 
A blindfold minuet over addled eggs, 
Where all the syllables that end in ed, 
Like old dragoons, have cuts across the head ; — 
Essays so dark Champollion might despair 
To guess what mummy of a thought was there, 
Where our poor English, striped with foreign phrase, 
Looks like a Zebra in a parson's chaise ; — 
Lectures that cut our dinners down to roots, 
Or prove (by monkeys) men should stick to fruits ; 
Delusive error, — as at trifling charge 
Professor Gripes will certify at large ; — 
Mesmeric pamphlets, which to facts appeal, 
Each fact as slippery as a fresh-caught eel ; — 
And figured heads, whose hieroglyphs invite 
To wandering knaves that discount fools at sight ; — 
Such things as these, with heaps of unpaid bills, 
And candy puffs and homoeopathic pills, 
And ancient bell-crowns with contracted rim, 
And bonnets hideous with expanded brim, 


And coats whose memory turns the sartor pale, 
Their Bequels tapering like a lizard's tail; — 
How might we spread them to the Bmiling day, 
And toss them, fluttering like the new-mown hay. 
To laughter's light or sorrow's pitying shower, 
Were these brief minutes lengthened to an hour. 

The narrow moments fit like Sunday shoes, 
How vast the heap, how quickly must we choose : 
A few small scraps from out his mountain mass 
We snatch in haste, and let the vagrant pass. 

This shrunken crust that Cerberus could not bite, 
Stamped (in one corner) " Pickwick copyright," 
Kneaded by youngsters, raised by flattery's yeast, 
Was once a loaf, and helped to make a feast 
He for whose sake the glittering show appears 
Has sown the world with laughter and with tears, 
And they whose welcome wets the bumper's brim 
Have wit and wisdom, — for they all quote him. 
So, many a tongue the evening hour prolongs 
With spangled speeches, — let alone the songs, — 
Statesmen grow merry, lean attorneys laugh, 
And weak teetotals warm to half and half, 
And beardless Tullys, new to festive Bcenes, 
Cut their first crop of youth's precocious greens, 
And wits stand ready for impromptu claps, 
With loaded barrels and percussion caps, 
And Pathos, cantering through the minor key-. 
Waves all her onions to the trembling breeze ; 
While the great Feasted views with silent glee 
His scattered limbs in Yankee fricassee. 

Sweet is the scene where genial friendship plays 
The pleasing game of interchanging praise ; 


Self-love, grimalkin of the human heart, 

Is ever pliant to the master's art; 

Soothed Avith a word, she peacefully withdraws 

And sheathes in velvet her obnoxious elaws, 

And thrills the hand that smooths her glossy fur 

With the light tremor of her grateful purr. 

But what sad music fills the quiet hall, 

If on her hack a feline rival fall ; 

And (), what noises shake the tranquil house, 

If old Self-interest cheats her of a mouse ! 

Thou, my country, hast thy foolish ways, 

Too apt to purr at even' stranger's praise ; 

But, if the stranger touch thy modes or laws, 

Off goes the velvet and out come the claws ! 

And thou, Illustrious ! hut too poorly paid 

In toasts from Pickwick for thy great crusade, 

Though, while the echoes labored with thy name, 

The public trap denied thy little game, 

Let other lips our jealous laws revile, — 

The marble Talfourd or the rude Carl vie, — 

But on thy lids, that Heaven forbids to close 

Where'er the light of kindly nature glows, 

Let not the dollars that a churl denies 

Weigh like the shillings on a dead man's eyes ! 

Or, if thou wilt, be more discreetly blind, 

Nor ask to see all wide extremes combined. 

Not in our wastes the dainty blossoms smile, 

That crowd the gardens of thy scanty isle. 

There white-cheeked Luxury weaves a thousand 

charms ; — 
Here sun-browned Labor swings his naked arms. 


Long arc the furrows he must trace between 
The ocean's azure and the prairie's green ; 
Full many a blank his destined realm displays, 
Yet see the promise of his riper days : 
Far through yon depths the panting engine moves, 
His chariots ringing in their steel-shod grooves ; 
And Erie's naiad flings her diamond wave 
O'er the wild sea-nymph in her distant cave ! 
While tasks like these employ his anxious hours, 
What if his corn-fields are not edged with flowers 1 
Though bright as silver the meridian beams 
Shine through the crystal of thine English streams, 
Turbid and dark the mighty wave is whirled 
That drains our Andes and divides a world ! 

But lo ! a parchment ! Surely it would seem 

The sculptured impress speaks of power supreme; 

Some grave design the solemn page must claim 

That shows so broadly an emblazoned name ; 

A sovereign's promise ! Look, the lines aflbrd 

All Honor gives when Caution asks his word : 

There sacred Faith has laid her snow-white hands, 

And awful Justice knit her iron bands ; 

Yet every leaf is stained with treachery's dye, 

And every letter crusted with a lie. 

Alas ! no treason has degraded yet 

The Arab's salt, the Indian's calumet; 

A simple rite, that bean the wanderer's pledge, 

Blunts the keen shaft and turns the dagger's 

While jockeying senates stop to sign and seal, 
And freeborn statesmen legislate to steal. 
Rise, Europe, tottering witli thine Atlas load, 
Turn thy proud eye to Freedom's blest abode, 


And round her forehead, wreathed with lieavenly 

Bind the dark garland of her daughter's shame ! 
Ye oeean elouds, that wrap the angry blast, 
Coil her stained ensign round its haughty mast, 
Or tear the fold that wears so foul a scar, 
And drive a bolt through every blackened star ! 

Once more, — once only, — we must stop so soon, — 
What have we here ? A German-silver spoon ; 
A cheap utensil, which we often sec 
Used by the dabblers in aesthetic tea, 
Of slender fabric, somewhat light and thin, 
Made of mixed metal, chiefly lead and tin ; 
The bowl is shallow, and the handle small, 
Marked in large letters with the name Jean Paul. 
Small as it is, its powers are passing strange, 
For all who use it show a wondrous change ; 
And first, a fact to make the barbers stare, 
It beats Macassar for the growth of hair ; 
See those small youngsters whose expansive ears 
Maternal kindness grazed with frequent shears ; 
Each bristling crop a dangling mass becomes, 
And all the spoonies turn to Absaloms ! 
Nor this alone its magic power displays, 
It alters strangely all their works and ways ; 
With uncouth words they tire their tender lungs, 
The same bald phrases on their hundred tongues ; 
" |g T er" "The Ages" in their page appear, 
"Ahvay" the bedlamite is called a "Seer"; 
On every leaf the "earnest" sage may scan, 
Portentous bore ! their " many-sided n man, — 
A weak eclectic, groping vague and dim, 
Whose every angle is a half-starved whim, 


Blind as a mole and curious as a lynx, 

Who rides a beetle, which he calls a "Sphinx." 

And O what questions asked in club-fool rhyme 

Of Earth the tongueless and the deaf-mute Time ! 
Here babbling " Insight " shouts in Nature's ears 
I lis Last conundrum on the orbs and spheres ; 
There Self-inspection sucks its little thumb, 
With " Whence am I \ " and " Wherefore did I 

come ? " 
Deluded infants ! will they ever know 
Some doubts must darken o'er the world below, 
Though all the Platos of the nursery trail 
Their "clouds of glory " at the go-cart's tail ! 
might these couplets their attention claim, 
That gain their author the Philistine's name ; 
(A stubborn race, that, spurning foreign law, 
Was much helahored with an ass's jaw !) 

Melodious Laura! From the sad retreats 

That hold thee, smothered with excess of sweets. 

Shade of a shadow, spectre of a dream, 

Glance thy wan eye across the Stygian stream ! 

The slip-shod dreamer treads thy fragrant halls, 

The sophist's cobwebs hang thy roseate walls, 

And o'er the crotchets of thy jingling tunes 

The hard of mystery scrawls his crooked " runes." 

Yes, thou art gone, with all the tuneful hordes 

That candied thoughts in amher-colored words. 

And in the precincts of thy late abodes 

The clattering vcrsc-wright hammers Orphic odes. 

Thou, soft as zephyr, Wast content to fly 

On the gilt pinions of a balmy sigh; 

lie, vast as Phoebus on his burning wheels, 

Would stride through ether at Orion's heelfl ; 

URANIA. 1 37 

Thy emblem, Laura, was a perfume-jar, 
And thine, young Orpheus, is a pewter star; 
The balance trembles, — be its verdict told 
When the new jargon slumbers with the old ! 

Cease, playful goddess ! From thine airy bound 
Drop like a feather softly to the ground ; 
This light bolero grows a ticklish dance, 
And there is mischief in thy kindling glance. 
To-morrow bids thee, with rebuking frown, 
Change thy gauze tunic for a home-made gown, 
Too blot by fortune, if the passing day 
Adorn thy bosom with its frail bouquet, 
But still happier if the next forgets 
Thy daring steps and dangerous pirouettes ! 



ES, dear Enchantress, — wandering far 
and long, 
In realms unperfumed by the breath of 

Where flowers ill-flavored shed their sweets around, 
And bitterest root- invade the nngenial ground, 
Whose gems are crystals from the Epsom mine, 
Whose vineyards How with antinionial wine, 

* This poem was delivered before the Boston Mercantile 
Library Association, October 14, 1846. 

138 URANIA: 

"Whose grates admit no mirthful feature in, 
Save one gaunt mocker, the Sardonic grin, 
Whose pangs are real, not the woes of rhyme 
That blue-eyed misses warble out of time; — 
Truant, not recreant to thy sacred claim, 
Older hy reckoning, but in heart the same, 
Freed for a moment from the chains of toil, 
I tread once more thy consecrated soil ; 
Here at thy feet my old allegiance own, 
Thy subject still, and loyal to thy throne ! 

My dazzled glance explores the crowded hall ; 
Alas, how vain to hope the smiles of all ! 
I know my audience. All the gay and young 
Love the light antics of a playful tongue ; 
And these, remembering some expansive line 
My lips let loose among the nuts and wine, 
Are all impatience till the opening pun* 
Proclaim the witty shamiight is begun. 
Two fifths at least, if not the total half, 
Have come infuriate for an earthquake laugh; 
I know full well what alderman lias tied 
His red bandanna tight about his side ; 
I see the mother, who, aware that boys 
Perform their laughter with superfluous noise, 
Beside her kerchief, brought an extra one 
To stop the explosions of her bursting son ; 
I know a tailor, once a friend of mine, 
Expects great doings in the button line; — 
For mirth's concussions rip the outward ease, 
And plant the stitches in a tenderer place. 
I know my audience; — these shall have their due ; 
A smile awaits them ere my song is through ! 



I know myself. Not servile for applause, 
My Muse permits no deprecating clause ; 

Modest or vain, she will not be denied 
One hold confession due to honest pride; 
And well she knows the drooping veil of song 
Shall save her boldness from the caviller's wrong. 
Her sweeter voice the Heavenly Maid imparts 
To tell the secrets of our aching hearts ; 
Fortius, a suppliant, captive, prostrate, bound, 
She kneels imploring at the feet of sound ; 
For this, convulsed in thought's maternal pains, 
She loads her arms with rhyme's resounding chains ; 
Faint though the music of her fetters be, 
It lends one charm ; — her lips are ever free ! 

Think not I come, in manhood's fiery noon, 
To steal his laurels from the stage buffoon ; 
His sword of lath the harlequin may wield ; 
Behold the star upon my lifted shield ! 
Though the just critic pass my humble name, 
And sweeter lips have drained the cup of fame, 
While my gay stanza pleased the banquet's lords, 
The soul within was tuned to deeper chords ! 
Say, shall my arms, in other conflicts taught 
To swing aloft the ponderous mace of thought, 
Lift, in obedience to a school-girl's law, 
Mirth's tinsel wand or laughter's tickling straw? 
Say, shall I wound with satire's rankling spear 
The pure, warm hearts that bid me welcome here? 
No ! while I wander through the land of dreams, 
To strive with great and play with trifling themes, 
Let some kind meaning fill the varied line; 
You have your judgment ; will you trust to mine ? 

i 4 o URANIA: 

Between two breaths what crowded mysteries 
lie, — 
The first short gasp, the last and long-drawn sigh ! 
Like phantoms painted on the magic slide, 

Forth from the darkness of the past we glide, 
As living shadows for a moment seen 
In airy pageant on the eternal screen, 
Traced by a ray from one unchanging flame, 
Then seek the dust and stillness whence we came. 

• But whence and why, our trembling souls inquire, 
Caught these dim visions their awakening lire ! 

who forgets when first the piercing thought 
Through childhood's musings found its way un- 

1 am ; — I live. The mystery and the fear 
When the dread question, What has : iROUGHl 


Burst through life's twilight, as before the sun 
Roll the deep thunders of the morning gun ! 

Arc angel faces, silent and serene, 
Bent on the conflicts of this little scene, 
AVhose dream-like efforts, whose unreal strife, 
Are but the preludes to a larger life ! 

Or docs life's summer sec the end of all, 
These Leaves of being mouldering as they fall, 
A> the old poet vaguely \\>v^\ to deem, 
As Weslet questioned in his youthful dream ( l0 
<) could such mockery reach our souls indeed, 
Give hack the Pharaohs' or the Athenian's creed; 
Better than this a Heaven of man's device, — 
The Indian's sports, the Moslem's paradise! 

A lill 7 MED LESSON. 141 

Or is our being's only end and aim 
To add new ,-iorics to our Maker'- name, 
As the poor insect, shrivelling in the blaze, 
Lends a faint sparkle to its streaming rays ? 
Does earth send upwards to the Eternal's ear 
The mingled discords of her jarring sphere 
To Bwell his anthem, while creation rings 
With notes of anguish from its shattered strings? 
Is it for this the immortal Artist means 
These conscious, throbbing, agonized machines ? 

Dark is the soul whose sullen creed can bind 
In chains like these the all-embracing Mind; 
No ! two-faced bigot, thou dost ill reprove 
The sensual, selfish, yet benignant Jove, 
And praise a tyrant throned in lonely pride, 
A\ "ho loves himself, and cares for naught beside ; 
Who gave thee, summoned from primeval night, 
A thousand laws, and not a single right, — 
A heart to feel, and quivering nerves to thrill, 
The sense of wrong, the death-defying will; 
Who girt thy senses with this goodly frame, 
Its earthly glories and its orhs of flame, 
Not for thyself, unworthy of a thought, 
Poor helpless victim of a life unsought, 
But all for him, unchanging and supreme, 
The heartless centre of thy frozen scheme ! 

Trust not the teacher with his lying scroll, 
Who tears the charter of thy shuddering BOulj 
The God <>f love, who gave the breath that warms 
All living dust in all its varied form-. 
Asks not the tribute of a world like this 
To lill the measure of his perfect bliss. 

1 42 URANIA: 

Though winged with life through all its radiant 

Creation flowed with unexhausted stores 
Cherub and seraph had not yet enjoyed ; 
For this he called thee from the quickening void ! 
Nor this alone ; a larger gift was thine, 
A mightier purpose swelled his vast design; 
Thought, — conscience, — will, — to make them all 

thine own, 
He rent a pillar from the eternal throne ! 

Made in his image, thou must nobly dare 
The thorny crown of sovereignty to share. 
With eye uplifted, it is thine to view, 
From thine own centre, Heaven's o'erarching blue ; 
So round thy heart a beaming circle lies 
No fiend can blot, no hypocrite disguise ; 
From all its orbs one cheering voice is heard, 
Full to thine ear it bears the Father's word, 
Now, as in Eden where his first-born trod : 
" Seek thine own welfare, true to man and God ! " 

Think not too meanly of thy low estate ; 
Thou hast a choice; to choose is to create ! 
Remember whose the sacred Lips that tell, 
Angels approve thee when thy choice is well; 
Remember, One, a judge of righteous men, 
Swore to spare Sodom if she held but ten ! 
Use well thi' freedom which thy Master gave, 
(Think'st thou that Heaven can tolerate a slave?) 
And He who made thee to be just and true 
Will bless thee, love thee, — ay, respect thee too! 

Nature has placed thee on a changeful tide, 
To breast its waves, but not without a guide ; 


Yet, as the needle will forget its aim, 
Jarred by the fury of the electric name, 
As the true current it will falsely feel, 
Warped from its axis by a freight of steel; 
So will thy conscience lose its balanced truth, 
U passion's lightning fall upon thy youth; 
So the pure effluence quit its sacred hold, 
Girt round too deeply with magnetic gold. 

Go to yon tower, where busy science plies 
Her vast antenna}, feeling through the skies ; 
That little vernier on whose slender lines 
The midnight taper trembles as it shines, 
A silent index, tracks the planets' march 
In all their wanderings through the ethereal arch, 
Tells through the mist where dazzled Mercury burns, 
And marks the spot where Uranus returns. 

So, till by wrong or negligence effaced, 
The living index which thy Maker traced 
Repeats the line each starry Virtue draws 
Through the wide circuit of creation's laws ; 
Still tracks unchanged the everlasting ray 
Where the dark shadows of temptation stray ; 
But, once defaced, forgets the orbs of light, 
And leaves thee wandering o'er the expanse of night. 

" What is thy creed 1 " a hundred lips inquire ; 
"Thou seckest God beneath what Christian spire 7 " 
Nor ask they idly, for uncounted lies 
Float upward on the smoke of sacrifice; 
WTien man's first incense rose above the plain, 
Of earth's two altars one was built by Cain ! 

Uhcursed by doubt, our earliest creed we take; 
We love the precepts for the teacher's sake; 
The simple lessons which the nursery taught 
Fell soft and stainless on the buds of thought, 

i 4 4 URANIA: 

And the full blossom owes its fairest hue 
To those sweet tear-drops of affection's dew. 
Too oft the light that led our earlier hours 
Fades with the perfume of our cradle flowers; 
The clear, cold question chills to frozen doubt; 
Tired of beliefs, we dread to live without ; 
O then, if Reason waver at thy side, 
Let humbler Memory be thy gentle guide : 
Go to thy birthplace, and, if faith was there, 
Repeat thy father's creed, thy mother's prayer! 

Faith loves to lean on Time's destroying arm, 
And age, like distance, lends a double charm ; 
In dim cathedrals, dark with vaulted gloom, 
What holy awe invests the Baintly tomb ! 
There pride will bow, and anxious care expand, 
And creeping avarice come with open baud ; 
The gay can weep, the impious can adore, 
From morn's first glimmerings on the chancel floor, 
Till dying sunset sheds his crimson stains 
Through the faint halos of the irised panes. 

Yet there are graves, whose rudely-shapen ><»<1 
Bears the fresh footprints where the sexton trod ; 
Graves where the verdure has not dared to shoot, 
Where the chance wild-flower has not fixed its root, 
Whose slumbering tenants, dead without a name, 
The eternal record shall at length proclaim 
Pure as the holiest in the long array 
Of hooded, mitred, or tiaraed clay ! 

Come, seek the air ; some pictures we may gain 
Whose passing shadows .-ball not he in vain ; 

N<>t from the scenes that crowd the stran-er'.s Boil, 

Not from our own amidst the stir of toil, 


But when the Sabbath brings its kind release, 
And Care lies Blumbering on the lap of Peace. 

The air is hushed ; the street is holy ground ; 
Hark ! The Bweet bells renew their welcome sound ; 
A- one by one awakes each silent tongue, 

It tells the turret whence its voice is flung. 11 

The Chapel, last of sublunary tilings 
That Bhocks <mr echoes witli the name of Kings, 
Whose hell, just glistening from the font and forge, 
Rolled its proud requiem for the second George, 
Solemn and Bwelling, as of old it rang, 
Flings to the wind its deep, sonorous clang; — 
The simpler pile, that, mindful of the hour 
When Howe's artillery shook its half-built tower, 
Wears on it> bosom, as a bride might do, 
The iron breastpin which the " Rebels " threw, 
Wakes the sharp echoes with the quivering thrill 
Of keen vibrations, tremulous and shrill ; — 
Aloft, suspended in the morning's fire, 
( rash the vast cymbals from the Southern spire; — 
r Jdie Giant, Btanding by the elm-clad green, 
His white lance lifted o'er the silent scene, 
Whirling in air his brazen goblet round, 
Swings from its brim the swollen floods of sound; — 
While, sad with memories of the olden time, 
The Northern Minstrel pours her tender chime, 
Taint, Bingle tones, that spell their ancient song, 
hut tears still follow as they breathe along. 

Child of the soil, whom fortune sends to range 
Where man and nature, faith and customs change, 


146 URANIA: 

Borne in thy memory, each familiar tone 
Mourns on the winds that sigh in every zone. 
When Ceylon sweeps thee with her perfumed breeze 
Through the warm billows of the Indian seas ; 
When — ship and shadow blended both in one — 
Flames o'er thy mast the equatorial sun, 
From sparkling midnight to refulgent noon 
Thy canvas swelling with the still monsoon ; 
When through thy shrouds the wild tornado sings, 
And thy poor seabird folds her tattered wings, — 
Oft will delusion o'er thy senses steal, 
And airy echoes ring the Sabbath peal ! 
Then, dim with grateful tears, in long array 
Rise the fair town, the island-studded bay, 
Home, with its smiling board, its cheering fire, 
The half-choked welcome of the expecting sire, 
The mother's kiss, and, still if aught remain, 
Our whispering hearts shall aid the silent strain. — 

Ah, let the dreamer o'er the tattrail lean 
To muse unheeded, and to weep unseen ; 
Fear not the tropic's dews, the evening's chills, 
His heart lies warm among his triple hills ! 

Turned from her path by this deceitful gleam, 
My wayward fancy hajf forgets her theme; 
Sec through the streets that slumbered in repose 
The living current of devotion flows; 
Its varied forms in one harmonious band, 
Age leading childhood by its dimpled hand, 
Want, in the robe whose faded edges fall 
To tell of rags beneath the tartan shawl. 
And wealth, in silks that, fluttering to appear, 
Lilt the deep borders of the proud cashmere. 


See, but glance briefly, sorrow-worn and pale, 
Those sunken cheeks beneath the widow's veil ; 
Alone she wanders where with him she trod, 
No arm to stay her, but she leans on God. 

While other doublets deviate here and there, 
What secret handcuff binds that pretty pair ? 
Compactest couple ! pressing side to side, — 
Ah, the white bonnet that reveals the bride ! 

By the white neckcloth, with its straitened tie, 
The sober hat, the Sabbath-speaking eye, 
Severe and smileless, he that runs may read 
The stern disciple of Geneva's creed ; 
Decent and slow, behold his solemn march; 
Silent he niters through yon crowded arch. 

A livelier bearing of the outward man, 
The light-hued gloves, the undevout ratan, 
Now smartly raised or half-profanely twirled, — 
A bright, fresh twinkle from the week-day world, — 
Tell their plain story ; — yes, thine eyes behold 
A cheerful Christian from the liberal fold. 

Down the chill street that curves in gloomiest 
What marks betray yon solitary maid? 
The cheek's red rose, that speaks of balmier air ; 
The Celtic blackness of her braided hair ; 12 
The gilded missal in her kerchief tied ; 
Poor Nora, exile from Killarney's side ! 

Sister in toil, though blanched by colder skies, 
That left their azure in her downcast eves, 
See pallid Margaret, Labor's patient child, 
Scarce weaned from home, the nursling of the wild, 
Where white Katahdin o'er the horizon shines, 
And broad Penobscot dashes tlirough the pines. 

148 URANIA: 

Still, as she hastes, her careful fingers hold 
The unfailing hymn-book in its cambric fold. 

Six days at drudgery's heavy wheel she Stands, 
The seventh sweet morning folds her weary hands; 
Yes, child of suffering, thou may'st well he sure 
He who ordained the Sabbath loves the poor ! 

This weekly picture faithful Memory draws, 
Nor claims the noisy tribute of applause ; 
Faint is the glow such barren hopes can lend, 
And frail the line that asks no loftier end. 

Trust me, kind listener, I will yet beguile 
Thy saddened features of the promised smile ; 
This magic mantle thou must well divide, 
It has its sable and its ermine side ; 
Yet, ere the lining of the robe appears, 
Take thou in silence what I give in tears. 

Dear listening soul, this transitory scene 
Of murmuring stillness, busily serene, — 
This solemn pause, the breathing-space of man, 
The halt of toil's exhausted caravan, — 
Comes sweet with music to thy wearied ear ; 
llise with its anthems to a holier sphere I 

Deal meekly, gently, with the hopes that guide 

The lowliest brother straying from thy side; 
If right, they bid thee tremble for thine own, 
If wrong, the verdict is for God alone ! 

What though the champions of thy faith esteem 

The sprinkled fountain or baptismal stream ; 

Shall jealous passions in unseemly strife 

( rose their dark weapons o'er the waves of lift ! 


Let my free soul, expanding as it can, 
Leave t«> his scheme the thoughtful Puritan; 
But Calvin's dogma shall my lips deride I 
In that stern faith my angel Mary died; — 
( >r ask if mercy's milder creed can save, 
Sweet sister, risen from thy new-made grave ? 

True, the harsh founders of thy church reviled 
That ancient faith, the trust of Erin's child; 
Must thou he raking in the crumbled past 
For racks and fagots in her teeth to cast ? 

from the ashes of Helvetia's pile 
The whitened Bkull of old Servetns smile ! 
Eound her young heart thy "Romish Upas" threw 
Its firm, dee}) fibres, strengthening as she grew; 
Thy sneering voice may call them "Popish tricks," — 
Her Latin prayers, her dangling crucifix, — 
But De Prqfundis blessed her father's grave; 
That " idol " cross her dying mother gave ! 

What if some angel looks with eqnal eyes 
On her and thee, the simple and the wise, 
Writes each dark fault against thy brighter creed, 
And drops a tear with every foolish bead ! 

Grieve, as thou must, o'er history's reeking page ; 
Blush for the wrongs that stain thy happier age ; 
Snive with the wanderer from the better path, 
Bearing thy message meekly, not in wrath; 
Weep for the frail that err, the weak that fall, 
Have thine own faith, — but hope and pray for all ! 

Faith ; Conscience ; Love. A meaner task re- 
And humbler thoughts most creep in lowlier strains ; 

150 URANIA: 

Shalt thou be honest ? Ask the worldly schools, 
And all will tell thee knaves are busier fools; 
Prudent l . Industrious 1 Let not modern pens 
Instruct " Poor Richard's " fellow-eitizens. 

Be firm ! one constant element in luck 
Is genuine, solid, old Teutonic pluck ; 
See yon tall shaft; it felt the earthquake's thrill, 

Clung to its base, and greets the sunrise still. 

Stick to your aim; the mongrel's hold will dip, 
But only crowbars loose the bulldog's grip ; 
Small as he looks, the jaw that never yields 
Drags down the bellowing monarch of the fields ! 

Yet in opinions look not always back; 
Your wake is nothing, mind the coming track ; 
Leave what you've done for what you have to do; 
Don't be " consistent/' but be simply true. 

Don't catch the fidgets ; you have found your place 
Just in the focus of a nervous race, 
Fretful to change, and rabid to discuss, 
Full of excitements, always in a fuss; — 
Think of the patriarchs ; then compare as men 
These lean-cheeked maniacs of the tongue and pen I 
Run, if you like, but try to keep your breath; 
Work like a man, but don't be worked to death; 
And with new notions, — let me change the rule, — 
Don't strike the iron till it 's slightly cool. 

Choose well your set; our feeble nature seeks 
The aid of clubs, the countenance of cliques; 

And with this object settle first of all 

Four weight Of metal and vour mzc of ball. 


Track not the steps of such as hold you cheap, 
Too mean to prize, though good enough to keep ; 
The " real, genuine, no-mistake Tom Thumbs M 
Are little people fed on great men's crumbs. 

Yet keep no followers of that hateful brood 
That basely mingles with its wholesome food 
The tumid reptile, which, the poet said, 
Doth wear a precious jewel in Ins head. 

If the wild filly, " Progress," thou wouldst ride, 
Have young companions ever at thy side ; 
But, wouldst thou stride the stanch old mare, 

" Success," 
Go with thine elders, though they please thee less. 

Shun such as lounge tlirough afternoons and eves, 
And on thy dial write, " Beware of thieves ! " 
Felon of minutes, never taught to feel 
The worth of treasures which thy fingers steal, 
Tick my left pocket of its silver dime, 
But spare the right, — it holds my golden time ! 

Does praise delight thee % Choose some ultra side ; 
A sure old recipe, and often tried ; 
Be its apostle, congressman, or bard, 
Spokesman, or jokesman, only drive it hard ; 
But know the forfeit which thy choice abides, 
For on two wheels the poor reformer rides, 
One black with epithets the anti throws, 
One white with flattery painted by the pros. 

Though books on manners are not out of print, 
An honest tongue may drop a harmless hint. 

Stop not, unthinking, every friend you meet, 
To spin your wordy fabric in the street ; 

1 52 URANIA: 

While you arc emptying your colloquial pack, 
The fiend Lumbago jumps upon his back. 

Nor cloud his features with the unwelcome tale 
Of how he looks, if haply thin and pale ; 
Health is a subject for his child, his wife, 
And the rude office that insures his life. 

Look in his face, to meet thy neighbor's soul, 
Not on his garments, to detect a hole; 
"How to observe/' is what thy pages show, 
Pride of thy sex, Miss Harriet Martineau ! 
O, what a precious book the one would be 
That taught observers what they 're not to sec ! 

I tell in verse, — 't were better done in prose, — 
One curious trick that everybody knows ; 
Once form this habit, and it 's very strange 
How long it sticks, how hard it is to change. 
Two friendly people, both disposed to smile, 
Who meet, like others, every little while, 
Instead of passing with a pleasant bow, 
And " How d' ye do 1 " or " How 's your uncle 

Impelled by feelings in their nature kind, 
But slightly weak, and somewhat andefined, 
Rush at each other, make a sudden stand, 
Begin to talk, expatiate, and expand ; 
Each looks quite radiant, seems extremely struck, 
Their meeting so was such a piece of luck ; 
Each thinks the other thinks he 's greatly pleased 
To screw the vice in which they both are Bqueezed ; 
So there they talk, in dust, or mud, or snow, 
Both bored to death, and both afraid to go I 

Your hat once lilted, do not hang your lire, 
Nor, like slow Ajax, lighting still, retire; 


"When your old castor on your crown yon clap, 
Go off; you've mounted your percussion cap. 


Some words on LANGUAGE may be well applied, 
And take them kindly, though they touch your pride ; 
Words Lead to things; a scale is more precise, — 
Coarse speech, had grammar, swearing, drinking, 

Our cold Northeaster's icy fetter clips 
The native freedom of the Saxon lips ; 
See the brown peasant of the plastic South, 
How all his passions play about his mouth ! 
With us, the feature that transmits the soul, 
A frozen, passive, palsied breathing-hole. 
The crampy shackles of the ploughboy's walk 
Tie the small muscles when he strives to talk ; 
Not .ill the pumice of the polished town 
Can smooth this roughness of the barnyard down; 
Rich, honored, titled, he betrays his race 
By this one mark, — he 's awkward in the face ; — 
Nature's rude impress, long before he knew 
The sunny street that holds the sifted few. 

It can't be helped, though, if we 're taken young, 
We gain some freedom of the lips and tongue ; 
But school and college often try in vain 
To break the padlock of our boyhood's chain : 
One stubborn word will prove this axiom true, — 
No quondam rustic can enunciate view. 

A few brief stanzas may be well employed 
To .-peak of errors we can all avoid. 

Learning condemns beyond the reach of hope 
The careless lips that speak of soap for Soap ; 
Her edict exiles from her fair abode 
The clownish voice that utters road for road ; 

i 5 4 URANIA: 

Less stern to him who calls his coat a coat, 
And steers his boat, believing it a boat, 
She pardoned one, our classic city's boast, 
Who said at Cambridge, must instead of most, 
But knit her brows and stamped her angry foot 
To hear a Teacher call a root a root. 

Once more ; speak clearly, if you speak at all ; 
Carve every word before you let it fall ; 
Don't, like a lecturer or dramatic star, 
Try over hard to roll the British R ; 
Do put your accents in the proper spot ; 
Don't, — let me beg you, — don't say " How 3 " for 

« What ? " 
And, when you stick on conversation's burrs, 
Don't strew your pathway with those dreadful urs. 

From little matters let us pass to less, 
And lightly touch the mysteries of dress ; 
The outward forms the inner man reveal, — 
We guess the pulp before we cut the peel. 

I leave the broadcloth, — coats and all the rest, — 
The dangerous waistcoat, called by cockneys "vest," 
The things named " pants " in certain documents, 
A word not made for gentlemen, but "gents"; 
One single precept might the whole condense: 
Be sure your tailor is a man of sense; 
But add a little care, a decent pride, 
And always err upon the sober side. 

Three pairs of boots one pair of feet demands. 
If polished daily by the owner's bands ; 
It the dark menial's visit save from this. 

Have twice the number, for lie '11 sometimes miss. 


One pair for critics of the nicer sex, 
Close in the instep's clinging circumflex, 

Long, narrow, light; the Gallic boot of love, 
A kind of cross between a boot and glove. 
But, not to tread on everlasting thorns, 
And sow in suffering what is reaped in corns, 
Compact, but easy, strong, substantial, square, 
Let native art compile the medium pair. 
The third remains, and let your tasteful skill 
Here show some relics of affection still ; 
Let no stiff cowhide, reeking from the tan, 
No rough caoutchouc, no deformed brogan, 
Disgrace the tapering outline of your feet, 
Though yellow torrents gurgle through the street; 
But the patched calf-skin arm against the flood 
In neat, light shoes, impervious to the mud. 

Wear seemly gloves ; not black, nor yet too light, 
And least of all the pair that once was white; 
Let the dead party where you told your loves 
Bury in peace its dead bouquets and gloves ; 
Shave like the goat, if so your fancy bids, 
But be a parent, — don't neglect your kids. 

Have a good hat ; the secret of your looks 
Lives with the beaver in Canadian brooks; 
Virtue may flourish in an old cravat, 
But man and nature scorn the shocking hat. 
Docs beauty slight you from her gay abodes 1 
Like bright Apollo, you must take to Rhoades, 
Mount the new castor, — ice itself will melt; 
Boots, gloves, may fail; the hat is always felt! 

Be shy of breastpins ; plain, well-ironed white, 
With small pearl buttons, — two of them in Bight, — 

156 URANIA: 

Is always genuine, while your poms may pass, 
Though real diamonds, for Ignoble glass; 
But spurn those paltry Cisatlantic lies, 
That round his breast the shabby rustic ties ; 
Breathe not the name, profaned to hallow things 
The indignant laundress blushes when she brings ! 

Our freeborn race, averse to every check, 
lias tossed the yoke of Europe from its neck; 
From the green prairie to the sea-girt town, 
The whole wide nation turns its collars down. 

The stately neck is manhood's manliest part ; 
It takes the life-blood freshest from the heart ; 
With short, curled ringlets close around it spread, 
How light and strong it lifts the Grecian head ! 
Thine, fair Erechtheus of Minerva's wall; — 
Or thine, young athlete of the Louvre's hall, 
Smooth as the pillar flashing in the sun 
That tilled the arena where thy wreaths were won, — 
Firm as the band that clasps the antlered spoil, 
Strained in the winding anaconda's coil ! 

I spare the contrast ; it were only kind 
To be a little, nay, intensely blind : 
Choose for yourself: 1 know it cuts your ear; 
I know the points will sometimes interfere \ 
I know that often, like the filial John, 
Whom sleep Burprised with half bis drapery on, 
Vnu Bhow your features to the astonished town 
With one side Btanding and the other down ; — 
But, <> my friend ! my favorite fellow-man! 

It' Nature made you on her modern plan, 
Sooner than wander with your windpipe bare, — 
The frail of Eden ripening in the air, — 


With that lean head-stalk, that protruding chin, 

Wear Btanding collars, were they made of tin! 
And have a neck-cloth, — by the throat of Jove! 
Cut from the funnel of a rusty stove ! 

The long-drawn lesson narrows to its close, 
Chill, slender, slow, the dwindled current flows ; 
Tired of the ripples on its feehle springs, 
Once more the Muse unfolds her upward wings. 

Land of my birth, with this unhallowed tongue, 
Thy hopes, thy dangers, I perchance had sung ; 
But who shall sing, in brutal disregard 
Of all the essentials of the ''native bard"? 

Lake, sea, shore, prairie, forest, mountain, fall, 
Hifl eye omnivorous must devour them all; 
The tallest summits and the broadest tides 
His foot must compass with its giant strides, 
Where ( )eean thunders, where Missouri rolls, 
And tread at once the tropics and the poles ; 
His food all forms of earth, fire, water, air, 
His home all space, his birthplace everywhere. 

Some grave compatriot, having seen perhaps 
The pictured page that goes' in Worcester's Maps, 
And read in earnest what was said in jest, 
u Who drives fat oxen " — please to add the rest, — 
Sprung the odd notion that the poet's dreams 
Grow in the ratio of hifl hills and streams ; 
And hence insisted that the aforesaid "bard," 
Pink of the future, — fancy's pattern-card, — 
The babe of nature in the "giant West," 
Must be of course her biggest and her best. 

158 URANIA: 

But, were it true that nature's fostering sun 
Saves all its daylight for thai favorite one, 
If for his forehead every wreath she means, 

And we, poor children, must not touch (he greens; 

Since rocks and rivers cannot take the road 

To seek the elected in his own abode, 

Some voice must answer, for her precious heir, 

One solemn question, — Who shall pay his fare ? 

O when at length the expected hard shall come, 
Land of our pride, to strike thine echoes dumb, 
(And many a voice exclaims in prose and rhyme, 
It 's getting late, and he 's behind his time,) 
When all thy mountains clap their hands in joy, 
And all thy cataracts thunder, " That 's the boy/' — 
Say if with him the reign of song shall end, 
And Heaven declare its final dividend ? 

Be calm, dear brother ! whose impassioned strain 
Comes from an alley watered by a drain ; 
The little Mincio, dribbling to the Po, 
Beats all the epics of the Hoang Ho ; 
If loved in earnest by the tuneful maid, 
Don't mind their nonsense, — never be afraid ! 

The nurse of poets feeds her winged brood 
By common firesides, on familiar food; 

In a low hamlet, by a narrow stream, 

Where bovine rustics used to doze and dream, 

She idled young William's iierv fancy full, 

While old John Shakespeare talked of beeves and 

wool ! 
No Alpine needle, with its climbing spire, 

Brings down for mortals the Promethean lire, 


l S9 

If careless nature have forgot to frame 
An altar worthy of the sacred flame. 

[Jnblest by any save the goatherd's lines, 
Mont Blanc rose soaring through Ins "sea of 

In vain the Arve and Arveiron dash, 
No hymn salutes them but the Ranz des Vaches, 
Till lazy Coleridge, by the morning's light, 
Gazed for a moment on the fields of white, 
And lo, the glaciers found at length a tongue, 
Mont Blanc was vocal, and Chamouni sung ! 

Children of wealth or want, to each is given 
One spot of green, and all the blue of heaven ! 
Enough, if these their outward shows impart; 
The rest is thine, — the scenery of the heart. 

If passion's hectic in thy stanzas glow, 
Thy heart's best lite-blood ebbing as they flow; 
If with thy verse thy strength and bloom distil, 
Drained by the pulses of the fevered thrill; 
If sound's sweet effluence polarize thy brain, 
And thoughts turn crystals in thy fluid strain, — 
Nor rolling ocean, nor the prairie's bloom, 
Nor streaming cliffs, nor rayless cavern's gloom, 
Need'st thou, young poet, to inform thy line ; 
Thy own broad signet stamps thy song divine ! 

Let others gaze where .silvery streams are rolled, 
And chase the rainbow for its cup of gold ; 
To thee all landscapes wear a heavenly t\y<\ 
Changed in the glance of thy prismatic eye ; 
Nature evoked thee in sublimer throes, 
For thee her inmost Arethusa flows, — 
The mighty mother's living depths are stirred, — 
Thou art the starred Osiris of the herd ! 

160 URANIA: 

A few brief lines ; they touch on solemn chords, 
And hearts may Leap to hear their honest words; 
Yet, ere the jarring bugle-blast is blown, 

The softer lyre shall breathe its soothing tone. 

New England ! proudly may thy children claim 
Their honored birthright by its humblest name ! 
Cold arc thy skies, but, ever fresh and clear, 
No rank malaria stains thine atmosphere; 
No fungous weeds invade thy scanty soil, 
Scarred by the ploughshares of unslumbering toil. 
Long may the doctrines by thy sages taught, 
Raised from the quarries where their sires have 

Be like the granite of thy rock-ribbed land, — 
As slow to rear, as obdurate to stand ; 
And as the ice, that leaves thy crystal mine, 
Chills the fierce alcohol in the Creole's wine, 
So may the doctrines of thy sober school 
Keep the hot theories of thy neighbors cool ! 

If ever, trampling on her ancient path, 
Cankered by treachery, <>r inflamed by wrath, 
With smooth " Resolves,' 1 or with discordant cries, 
The mad Briareus of disunion rise, 
Chiefs of New England ! by your sires' renown, 
Dash the red torches of the rebel down ! 
Flood his black hearthstone till it > flames expire, 
Though your old Sachem fanned his council-fire ! 

But if at last — her fading cycle run — 
The tongue must forfeil what die arm has won, 
Then rise, wild Ocean ! roll thy BUTging shock 

Full on old Plymouth's desecrated rock ! 


Scale the proud shaft degenerate hands have hewn, 
Where bleeding Valor Btained the flowers of. June! 
Sweep in our tide her Bpires and turrets down, 
And howl her dirge above Monadnock's crown ! 

List not the tale ; the Pilgrim's hallowed shore, 
Though Btrewn with weeds, is granite at the core; 
() rather trust that lie who made her free 
Will keep her true, as long as faith shall be ! 

Farewell ! vet lingering through the destined hour, 
Leave, sweet Enchantress, one memorial flower ! 

An Angel, floating o'er the waste of snow 
That clad our Western desert, long ago, 
(The Bame fair spirit, who, unseen by day. 
Shone as a star along the Mayflower's way,) 
Sent, the first herald of the Heavenly plan. 
To choose on earth a resting-place for man, — 
Tired with his flight along the unvaried field, 
Turned to soar upwards, when his glance revealed 
A calm, bright bay, enclosed in rocky bounds, 
And at its entrance stood three sister mounds. 

The Angel spake : " This threefold hill shall be 13 
The home of .Arts, the nurse of Liberty ! 
One -lately Mimmit from its shaft shall pour 
[ts deep-red blaze along the darkened shore; 
Emblem of thoughts, that, kindling far and wide, 
In danger's night shall be a nation's guide. 
One swelling crest the citadel Bhall crown, 
Its slanted bastions black with battle's frown, 
And bid the BOnS that tread its scowling heights 
Bare their strong arms for man and all his rights ! 


One silent steep along the northern wave 
Shall hold the patriarch's and the- hero's grave ; 
When fades the torch, when o'er the peacefo] Bcene 

The emhattled fortress smiles in living green, 

The cross of Faith, the anchor staff of Hope, 
Shall stand eternal on its grassy slope ; 
There through all time shall faithful Memory tell, 
'Here Virtue toiled, and Patriot Valor fell ; 
Thy free, proud fathers slumber at thy side: ^ 
Live as they lived, or perish as they died ! ' 


N the hour of twilight shadows 
The Puritan looked out ; 
He thought of the "bloudy Salvages 
That lurked all round about, 
OfWituwamet's pictured knife 

And Pecksuot's whooping shout; 
For the baby's limbs were feeble, 

Though his father's arms were stout. 

His home was a freezing cabin, 

TOO hare for the hungry rat, 

Its roof was thatched with ragged graw, 
And bald enough of thai ; 

The hole that served for casement 

\V : »s glazed with an ancient hat ; 
And the ice was gently thawing 

From the Log whereon he 9Zt 


Along the dreary landscape 

Hi- r\ es went to and fro, 
The trees all clad in icicles. 

The streams that did not flow ; 
A sudden thought flashed o'er him, — 

A dream of long ago, — 
lie smote his leathern jerkin, 

And murmured, " Even so ! " 

" Come hither, God-be-Glorified, 

And Bit upon my knee, 
Behold the dream unfolding, 

Whereof L .-pake to thee 
By the winter's hearth in Leyden 

And on the stormy sea ; 
True is the dream's beginning, — 

So may its ending be ! 

" I saw in the naked forest 

Our scattered remnant cast, 
A screen of shivering branches 

Between them and the bla>t ; 
The snow was falling round them, 

The dying fell as fast ; 
I looked to see them perish, 

When lo, the vision passed. 

u Again mine eyes were opened ; — 

The feeble had waxed strong, 
The babes had grown to sturdy men, 

The remnant was a throng; 
By shadowed lake and winding stream, 

And all the shores along, 
The howling demons quaked to hear 

The Christian's godly son-. 


" They slept, — the village fathers, — 

By river, lake, and shore, 
When far adown the steep of Time 

The vision rose once more ; 
I saw along the winter snow 

A spectral column pour, 
And high above their broken ranks 

A tattered flag they bore. 

" Their Leader rode before them, 

Of bearing calm and high, 
The light of Heaven's own kindling 

Throned in his awful eye ; 
These were a Nation's champions 

Her dread appeal to try ; 
God for the right ! I faltered, 

And lo, the train passed by. 

" Once more ; — the strife is ended, 

The solemn issue tried, 
The Lord of Hosts, his mighty arm 

Has helped our Israel's side ; 
Gray stone and grassy hillock 

Tell where our martyrs died, 
But peaceful smiles the harvest, 

And stainless Hows the tide. 

"A crash, — as when some swollen cloud 
Cracks o'er the tangled trees ! 

With side to Bide, and spar to spar, 
Whose smoking decks are these ! 

T know Saint George's blood-red cm--. 
Thou Mistress of the Seas, — 

lint what is she, whose Btreaming bars 

Roll out before the bree/e ! 


•• Ah, well her iron ribs are knit, 

Whose thunders strive to quell 
The bellowing throats, the blazing lips, 

That pealed the Armada's knell ! 
The mist was cleared, — a wreath of stars 

Rose o'er the crimsoned swell, 
And, wavering from its haughty peak, 

The cross of England fell ! 

" O trembling Faith ! though dark the morn, 

A heavenly torch is thine ; 
While feebler races melt away, 

And paler orbs decline, 
Still shall the fiery pillar's ray 

Along thy pathway shine, 
To light the chosen tribe that sought 

This Western Palestine ! 

" I see the living tide roll on ; 

It crowns with flaming towers 
The icy capes of Labrador, 

The Spaniard's 'land of flowers' ! 
It streams beyond the splintered ridge 

That parts the Northern Bhowers ; 
From eastern rock to sunset wave 

The Continent is ours ! " 

He ceased, — the grim old Puritan, — 

Then softly bent to cheer 
The pilgrim-child, whose wasting face 

\V;is meekly turned to hear ; 
And drew his toil-worn Bleeve across, 

To brush the manly tear 
From cheeks that never changed in woe, 

And never blanched in tear. 


The weary pilgrim slumbers, 

His resting-place unknown ; 
His hands were crossed, his lids were closed, 

The dust was o'er him strown ; 
The drifting soil, the mouldering leaf, 

Along the sod were blown ; 
His mound has melted into earth, 

His memory lives alone. 

So let it live unfading, 

The memory of the dead, 
Long as the pale anemone 

Springs where their tears were shed, 
Or, raining in the summer's wind 

In flakes of burning red, 
The wild rose sprinkles with its leaves 

The turf where onee they bled ! 

Yea, when the frowning bulwarks 

That guard this holy strand 
nave Bunk beneath the trampling surge 

In beds of sparkling sand, 
While in the waste of ocean 

( hie hoary rock shall stand, 
Be this its latest legend, — 

Here was the Pilg&im's land ! 



DENT Everett's inauguration. 

CEXE, — a back parlor in a certain 
Or court, or lane, — in short, no matter 
where ; 

Time, — early morning, dear to simple souls 
Who Love its sunshine, and its fresh-baked rolls ; 
Persons, — take pity on this telltale blush, 
That, like the iEthiop, whispers, "Hush, O hush!" 

Delightful scene ! where smiling comfort broods, 

Nor business frets, nor anxious care intrudes; 

a sic omnia I were it ever so ! 

But what is stable in this world below ? 

Medio efonte, — Virtue has her faults, — 

The clearest fountains taste of Epsom salts ; 

We snatch the cup and lift to drain it dry, — 

Its central dimple holds a drowning fly ! 

Strong is the pine by Maine's ambrosial streams, 

But stronger angers pierce its thickest beams; 

No iron ^ate, no spiked and panelled door, 

Can keep out death, the postman, or the bore ; — 

() for a world where peace and Bilence reign, 

And blunted dulness terebrates in vain! 

— The door-bell jingles, — enter Richard Fox, 

And takes this letter from his leathern box. 

" Dear Sir, 

Tn writing on a former day, 
( >nc little matter 1 forgot to say ; 


I now inform you in a single lino, 

On Thursday next our purpose is to dine. 

The act of feeding, as you understand, 

Is but a fraction of the work in hand ; 
Its nobler half is that ethereal meat 
The papers call < the intellectual treat ' ; 
Songs, speeches, toasts, around the festive board, 
Drowned in the juice the College pumps afford; 
For only water flanks our knives and forks, 
So, sink or float, we swim without the corks. 
Yours is the art, by native genius taught, 
To clothe in eloquence the naked thought; 
Yours is the skill its music to prolong 
Through the sweet effluence of mellifluous song ; 
Yours the quaint trick to cram the pithy line 
That cracks so crisply over bubbling wine ; 
And sinee success your various gifts attends, 

W< that is I and all your numerous friends — 

Expect from you — your single self a host — 
A speech, a song, excuse me, and a toast ; 
Nay, not to haggle on so small a claim 
A few of each, or several of the same. 

(Signed,) Yours, most truly, " 

Xo ! my Bight must fail, — 

If that ain't Judas on the largest scale ! 

Well, this is modest ; — nothing else than that ! 
My coat? my boots \ my pantaloons ! my hat ! 
My Btick l my gloves ! ;is well as all my wits, 
Learning and linen, — everything that tits ! 

Jack, said my lady, is it grog y<>u '11 try, 
Or punch, or toddy, if perhaps you 're dr) ! 


Ah, said the sailor, though I can't refuse, 
You know, my lady, 't ain't for me to choose; — 
I '11 take the grog to finish off my lunch, 
And drink the toddy while you mix the punch. 

The Speech. (The speaker, rising to be seen, 

Looks very red, because so very green.) 

I rise — I rise — with unaffected fear, 

(Louder! — speak louder! — who the deuce can 

hear '.) 
I rise — I said — with undisguised dismay — 

— Such are my feelings as 1 rise, I say ! 
Quite unprepared to face this learned throng, 
Alnady gorged with eloquence and song; 
Around my view are ranged on either hand 
The genius, wisdom, virtue, of the land; 

" Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed " 
Close at my elbow stir their lemonade; 
Would you like Homer learn to write and speak, 
That bench is groaning with its weight of Greek; 
Behold the naturalist that in his teens 
Found six new species in a dish of greens; 
And lo, the master in a statelier walk, 
Whose annual ciphering takes a ton of chalk ; 
And there the linguist, that by common roots 
Thro' all their nurseries tracks old Noah's shoots, — 
How Shem's proud children reared the Assyrian 

While Hani's were scattered through the Sandwich 

Isles I 

— Fired at the thought of all the present shows, 
My kindling fancy down the future flows : 


I see the priory of the coming days 
O'er Time's horizon shoot its streaming rays; 
Near and more near the radiant morning draws 
In living lustre (rapturous applause) ; 
From east to west the blazing heralds run, 
Loosed from the chariot of the ascending sun, 
Through the long vista of uncounted years 
In cloudless splendor (three tremendous cheers). 
My eye prophetic, as the depths unfold, 
Sees a new advent of the age of gold ; 
While o'er the scene new generations press, 
New heroes rise the coming time to hless, — 
Not such as Homer's, who, we read in Pope, 
Dined without forks and never heard of soap, — 
Not such as May to Marlborough Chapel brings, 
Lean, hungry, savage, anti-c very things, 
Copies of Luther in the pasteboard style, — 
But genuine articles, — the true Carlyle ; 
While far on high the blazing orb shall shed 
Trs central light on Harvard's holy head, 
And Learning's ensigns ever float unfurled 
Here in the focus of the new-born world ! 

The speaker stops, and, trampling down the pause, 
Roars through the hall the thunder of applause, 
One stormy gust of Long-suspended Aha ! 
One whirlwind chaos of insane hurrahs ! 

The Song. But this demands a briefer line,- 

A shorter muse, and not the old long Nine ; — 
Long metre answers for a common Bong, 

Though common metre does not answer long. 


She came beneath the forest dome 

To seek its peaceful shade, 
Ail exile from her ancient home, — 

A poor, forsaken maid ; 
No banner, flaunting high above, 

\i) blazoned cross, she bore; 
One holy book of light and love 

Was all her worldly store. 

The dark brown shadows passed away, 

And wider spread the green, 
And, where the savage used to stray, 

The rising mart was seen ; 
So, when the laden winds had brought 

Their showers of golden rain, 
Her lap some precious gleanings caught, 

Like Ruth's amid the grain. 

But wrath soon gathered uncontrolled 

Among the baser churls, 
To see her ankles red with gold, 

Her forehead white with pearls ; 
- Who gave to thee the glittering bands 

That lace thine azure veins 9 
Who bade thee lift those snow-white hands 

We bound in gilded chains 1 " 

These are the gems my children gave, 

The stately dame replied ; 
The wise, the gentle, and the brave, 

I nurtured at mv side ; 
If envy still your bosom stings, 

Take back their rims of gold ; 
My Miiis will melt their wedding-rings, 

And give a hundred-fold ! 


The Toast. tell me, ye who thoughtless a>k 

Exhausted nature for a threefold task, 

In wit or pathos if one share remains, 

A safe investment for an ounce of brains ? 

Hard is the job to launch the desperate pun, 

A pun-job dangerous as the Indian one. 

Turned by the current of some stronger wit 

Back from the object that you mean to hit, 

Like the strange missile which the Australian throws, 

Your verbal boomerang slaps you on the nose. 

One vague inflection spoils the whole with doubt, 

One trivial letter ruins all, left out ; 

A knot can choke a felon into clay, 

A not will save him, spelt without the k ; 

The smallest word has some unguarded spot, 

And danger lurks in i without a dot. 


Thus great Achilles, who had shown his zeal 
In healing wounds, died of a wounded heel ; 
Unhappy chief, who, when in childhood doused, 
Had saved his bacon, had his feet been soused ! 
Accursed heel that killed a hero stout! 
O, had your mother known that you were out, 
Death had not entered at the trilling part 
That still defies the small chirurgeon's art 
With corns and bunions, — not the glorious John] 
Who wrote the book we all have pondered on, — 
But other bunions, bound in fleecy hose. 
To " Pilgrim's Progress " unrelenting foes ! 

A health, unmingled with tin 1 reveller's wine, 

To him whose title is indeed divine; 

Truth's sleepless watchman on In r midnight tower, 

Whose lamp burns brightest w hen the tempests lower. 


o who can tell with what a leaden flight* 
Drag the long watches of his weary night; 
While at his feet the hoarse and blinding gale 
Strews the turn wreck and bursts the fragile sail, 
When stars have faded, when the wave is dark, 
When rocks and sands embrace the foundering bark, 
And still he pleads with unavailing cry, 
Behold the light, O wanderer, look or die ! 

A health, fair Themis ! Would the enchanted vine 
Wreathed its green tendrils round this cup of thine ; 
If Learning's radiance till thy modern court, 
Its glorious sunshine streams through Blackstone's 

port ! 
Lawyers are thirsty, and their clients too, 
Witness at Least, if memory serve me true, 
Those old tribunals, famed for dusty suits, 
Where men sought justice ere they brushed their 

boots ; — 
And what can match, to solve a learned doubt, 
The warmth within that comes from " eold without " 1 

Health to the art whose glory is to give 
The crowning boon that makes it life to live. 
Ask not her home ; — the rock where nature flings 
Her arctic lichen, last of living things, 
The gardens, fragrant with the orient's balm, 
From the low jasmine to the stardike palm, 
Hail her as mistress o'er the distant waves, 
And yield their tribute to her wandering >laves. 
Wherever, moistening the ungrateful soil, 
The tear of Buffering tracks the path of toil, 
There, in the anguish of his fevered hours, 
Her gracious finger points to healing flowers ; 



Where tlifc lost felon steals away to die, 
Her soft hand waves before his closing eye; 
Where hunted misery finds his darkest lair, 
The midnight taper shows her kneeling there ! 
Virtue, — the guide that men and nation.- own; 
And Law, — the bulwark that protects her throne ; 
And Health, — to all its happiest charm that Lends ; 
These and their servants, man's untiring friends ; 
Pour the bright lymph that Heaven itself lets fall, — 
In one fair bumper let us toast them all ! 


WAS sitting with my microscope, upon 

my parlor rug, 
With a very heavy quarto and a very 
lively bug ; 
The true bug had been organized with only two 

But the humbug in the copperplate would have 
them twice as many. 

And I thought, like Dr. Faustus, of the emptiness 

of art, 
How we take a fragment tor the whole, and call 

the whole a part, 
When I heard a heavy footstep that was loud 

enough for two. 
And a man of forty entered, exclaiming, — " How 

d'ye do ?" 


He waa not a ghost, my visitor, but solid flesh 

and bone , 
He WOre a Palo Alto hat, his weight was twenty 
stone , 

Id how liars expand their brims as riper 

years invade, 
As it' when life had reached its noon, it wanted 
the in for shade !) 

Host my focus, — dropped my book, — the bug, who 
was a flea, 

At once exploded, and commenced experiments on 

They have a certain heartiness that frequently ap- 
palls, — 

Those mediaeval gentlemen in semilunar smalls ! 

"My boy," lie said, — (colloquial ways, — the vast, 

broad-hatted man,) — 
" Come dine with us on Thursday next, — you must, 

you know you can ; 
We 're going to have a roaring time, with lots of 

fun and noise, 
Distingui>he«l guests, et cetera, the Judge, and all 

the boys." 

Not so, — I said, — my temporal bones arc Bhowing 
pretty clear 

It's time to stop, — just look and see that hair 

above this car ; 
My golden days aw more than spent, — ami, what 

ia very Btrai \ 
If these an- real >iher hairs, I 'm getting lots of 



Besides — my prospects — don't you know that 

people won't employ 
A man that wrongs his manliness by laughing like 

a hoy 1 
And suspect the azure hlossom that unfolds upon a 

As if wisdom's old potato could not nourish at its 

root ? 

It 's a very fine reflection, when you 're etcliing out 
a smile 

On a copper-plate of faces that would stretch at least 
a mile, 

That, what with sneers from enemies, and cheapen- 
ing shrugs of friends, 

It will cost you all the earnings that a month of 
lahor lends ! 

It 's a vastly pleasing prospect, when you 're screw- 
ing out a laugh, 

That your very next year's income is diminished 
by a half, 

And a little boy trips barefoot that Pegasus may go, 

And the baby's milk is watered that your Helicon 
may How ! 

No; — the joke has been a good one, — hut I'm 

getting fond of quiet, 
And I don't like deviations from my customary 

diet ; 
80 I think I will not go with you to bear the toasts 

and speeches, 
But stick to old Montgomery Place, and have some 

pig and peaches. 


The fat man answered : — Shut your mouth, and 

hear the genuine erred ; 
The true essentials of a feast arc only fun and 

feed ; 
The force that wheels the planets round delights in 

Bpinning tops, 
And that young earthquake t' other day was great 

at .shaking props. 

T tell you what, philosopher, if all the longest heads 
That ever knocked their sinciputs in stretching on 

their beds 
Were round one great mahogany, I'd beat those 

fine old folks 
With twenty dishes, twenty fools, and twenty clever 

jokes ! 

Why, if Columbus should be there, the company 

would beg 
He 'd Bhow that little trick of his of balancing the 

- ! 
Milton to Stilton would give in, and Solomon to 

And Roger Bacon be a bore, and Francis Bacon 

gammon ! 

And as for all the "patronage" of all the clowns 

and boon 
That squint their little narrow eyes at any freak of 

Do leave them to your prosier friends, — such 

fellows OUght to die 
When rhubarb is so very scarce and ipecac so 

high ! 



And so I come, — like Lochinvar, to tread a single 

To purchase with a loaf of bread a sugar-plum of 

To enter for the cup of glass that *s run for after 

Winch yields a single sparkling draught, then breaks 

and cuts the winner. 

Ah, that 's the way delusion comes, — a glass of 
old Madeira, 

A pair of visual diaphragms revolved by Jane or 

And down go vows and promises without the slight- 
est question 

If eating words won't compromise the organs of 
digestion ! 

And yet, among my native shades, beside my nurs- 
ing mother, 

Where every stranger seems a friend, and every 
friend a brother, 

I feel the old convivial glow (unaided) o'er me 
stealing, — 

The warm, champagny, old-particular, brandy- 
punchy feeling. 

We 're all alike ; — Vesuvius flings the scoria 1 from 

his fountain, 
But down they come in volleying rain back to the 

burning mountain ; 
We leave, like those volcanic stones, our precious 

Alma Mater, 
Bui will keep dropping in again to sec the dear old 




HIS ancient silver bowl of mine, — it 
tells of good old times, 
Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and 
merry Christmas chimes ; 
They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, 

and true, 
That dipped their ladle in the punch when this old 
bowl was new. 

A Spanish galleon brought the bar, — so runs the 

ancient tale ; 
'T was hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose 

arm was like a flail ; 
And now and then between the strokes, for fear his 

strength should fail, 
lie wiped his brow, and quaffed a cup of good old 

Flemish ale. 

'T was purchased by an English squire to please his 

loving dame, 
Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for 

the same ; 
And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found, 
*T was filled with caudle spiced and hot, and handed 

smoking round. 

But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan 

Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine, 
lint hated punch and prelacy ; and so it was, perhaps, 
He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles 

and schnaps. 


And then, of course, you know what 's next, — it 
left the Dutchman's shore 

With those that in the Mayflower came, — a hun- 
dred souls and more, — 

Along witli all the furniture, to fill their new 
abodes, — 

To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hun- 
dred loads. 

'T was on a dreary winter's eve, the night was clos- 
ing dim, 

When old Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled 
it to the brim ; 

The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with 
his sword, 

And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about 
the board. 

He poured the fiery Hollands in, — the man that 

never feared, — 
He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his 

yellow beard ; 
And one by one the musketeers — the men that 

fought and prayed — 
All drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not a 

man afraid. 

That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming 
eagle Hew, 

lie heard the Pequot'fl ringing whoop, the soldier's 

wild halloo ; 
And there the sachem learned the rule he taught 

to kith and kin, 
" Kim from the while man when von find he smells 

«.f Hollands gin!" 


A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their 

leaves and snows, 
A thousand rubs had flattened down eaeh little 

cherub's nose, 
When once again the bowl was filled, but not in 

mirth or joy, 
'T was mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her 

parting boy. 

Drink, John, she said, 't will do you good, — poor 
child, you '11 never bear 

This working in the dismal trench, out in the mid- 
night air ; 

And if — God bless me ! — you were hurt, 't would 
keep away the chill ; 

So John did drink, — and well he wrought that 
night at Bunker's Hill! 

I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old 

English cheer ; 
I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its 

symbol here. 
'Tis but the fool that loves excess ; — hast thou a 

drunken soul 1 
Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver 

bowl ! 

I love the memory of the past, — its pressed yet 
fragrant flowers, — 

The mosfl that clothes its broken walls, — the ivy 
on its towers ; — 

Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed, — my eye- 
grow moist and dim, 

To think of all the vanished joys that danced 
around its brim. 


Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight 

to me ; 
The goblet hallows all it holds, whatever the liquid 

be ; 
And may the cherubs on its face protect me from 

the sin, 
That dooms one to those dreadful words, — "My 

dear, where have you been ? " 



HERE was a young man in Boston town, 
He bought him a Stethoscope nice 
and new, 
All mounted and finished and polished 
With an ivory cap and a stopper too. 

It happened a spider within did crawl, 

And spun a web of ample size, 
Wherein there chanced one day to fall 

A couple of very imprudent Hits. 

The first was a bottle-fly, big and blue, 

The second was smaller, and thin and long; 

So there was a concert between the two, 

Like an octave flute and a tavern gOBg. 

Now being from Paris but recently, 

This line young man would sbow his skill ; 
And so they gave him, bis band to try, 

A hospital patient extremely ill. 


Some said that his liver was short of bile, 

And some that his heart was over size, 
While some kept arguing all the while 

lie was crammed with tubercles up to liis eyes. 

This fine young man then up stepped he, 
And all the doctors made a pause ; 

Said he, — The man must die, you see, 
By the fifty-seventh of Louis's laws. 

But since the case is a desperate one, 

To explore his chest it may be well ; 

For if he should die and it were not done, 
Yon know the autopsy would not tell. 

Then out his stethoscope he took, 

And on it placed his curious ear ; 

Mon Dieul said lie, with a knowing look, 

Why here is a sound that's mighty queer ! 

The bourdonnement is very clear, — 

Amphoric buzzing, as I'm alive! 
Five doctors took their turn to hear; 

Amphoric buzz'uuj, said all the five. 

There 's empyema beyond a doubt ; 

We '11 plunge a trocar in his side. — 
The diagnosis was made out, 

They tapped the patient ; so he died. 

Now BUCh as hate new-fashioned toys 
1) sgan to look extremely glum; 

They said that rattles were made for boys, 

And vowed that his bnzziiKj was all a hum. 


Tlicrc was an old lady had long been Bick, 

And what was the matter none did know : 
Her pulse was slow, though her tongue was quick ; 
To her this knowing youth must go. 

So there the nice old lady sat, 

With phials and boxes all in a row; 

She asked the young doctor what he was at, 
To thump her and tumble her ruffles so. 

Now, when the stethoscope came out, 

The Hies began to buzz and whiz; — 

O ho ! the matter is clear, no doubt ; 
An aneurism there plainly is. 

The bruit de rape and the bruit de scie 

And the bruit de diable are all combined ; 

How haj)])}' Bouillaud would be, 

If he a case like this could find ! 

Now, when the neighboring doctors found 

A case .so rare had been descried, 
They every day her ribs did pound 

In Bquadfi of twenty; so she died. 

Then six young damsels, Blight and frail, 

Received this kind young doctor's cares; 

They all were getting slim and pale, 

And short of breath on mounting stairs. 

They all made, rhymes with "sighs" and "skies," 
And loathed their puddings and buttered rolls, 

And dieted, nmeh to their friends 1 Mirpri>c, 

On pickles and pencils and chalk and coals. 


So fast their little hearts did bound, 

The frightened insects buzzed the more; 

So over all their chests lie found 

The rale siffiant, and rale sonore. 

He shook his head ; — there 's grave disease, - 
I greatly fear you all must die ; 

A slight post-mortem, if you please, 
Surviving friends would gratify. 

The six young damsels wept aloud, 

Which so prevailed on six young men, 

That each his honest love avowed, 

Whereat they all got well again. 

This poor young man was all aghast ; 

The priee of stethoscopes came down ; 
And so he was reduced at last 

To practise in a country town. 

The doctors being very sore, 

A stethoscope they did devise, 

That had a rammer to clear the bore, 

With" a knob at the end to kill the flics. 

Now use your ears, all you that can, 

But don't forget to mind your eyes, 

Or yon may l»c cheated, like this young man, 
V>y a couple of silly, abnormal tlies. 




HE feeble sea-birds, blinded in the storms, 
On some tall lighthouse dash their little 

And the rude granite scatters for their 
Those small deposits that were meant for brains. 
Yet the proud fabric in the morning's sun 
Stands all unconscious of the mischief done ; 
Still the red beacon pours its evening rays 
Eor the lost pilot with as full a blaze, 
Nay, shines, all radiance, o'er the scattered fleet 
Of gulls and boobies brainless at its feet. 

I tell their fate, though courtesy disclaims 
To call our kind by such ungentle names ; 
Yet, if your rashness bid you vainly dare, 
Think of their doom, ye simple, and beware! 

See where aloft its hoary forehead rears 
The towering pride of twice a thousand years ! 
Ear, far below the vast incumbent pile 
Sleeps the gray rock from art's JEgean isle ; 
Its massive courses, circling as they rise, 
Swell from the waves to mingle with the skies; 
There every quarry lends its marble spoil, 
And clustering ages blend their common toil ; 
The Greek, the Roman, reared its ancient Mails, 
The silent Arab arched its mystic halls ; 
In that fair niche, by countless billows laved, 
Trace the deep lines that Sydenham engraved ; 
( )n yon broad front that breasts the changing swell, 

Mark where the ponderous sledge of Hunter fell; 


By that square buttress look where Louis stands, 
The stone yet warm from his uplifted hands. 
And say, <> Science, shall thy life-blood freeze, 
When fluttering folly flaps on walls like these i 


Simple in youth, hut not austere in age; 
Calm, but not cold, and cheerful though a sage ; 
T< k > true to flatter, and too kind to sneer, 
And only just when seemingly severe; 
B gently blending courtesy and art, 
That wisdom's lips seemed borrowing friendship's 

taught by the sorrows that his age had known 
In others' trials to forget his own, 
As hour by hour his Lengthened day declined, 
Tin Bweeter radiance lingered o'er his mind. 

1 were the lips that spoke his early praise, 
And hushed the voices of his morning days, 
Yet the same accents dwelt on every tongue, 
And love renewing kept him ever young. 


' O /3/o; fi0*%vs, — life is but a song; 

■ H ri%vri fji,ctK^ri t — art is wondrous long; 

Yet to the wise her paths are ever fair, 

And Patience smiles, though Genius may despair. 

Give us but knowledge, though by Blow degrees, 

And blend our toil with moments bright as these ; 

Let Friendship's accents cheer our doubtful way, 

And Love's pure planet Lend its guiding ray, — 

Our tardy Art shall wear an angel's wings, 

And life shall lengthen with the joy it brings ! 



S o'er the glacier's frozen sheet 
Breathes soft the Alpine rose, 
So, through life's desert springing sweet, 
The flower of friendship grows; 

And as, where'er the roses grow, 
Some rain or dew descends, 
'T is nature's law that wine should flow 
To wet the lips of friends. 

Then once again, before we part, 

My empty glass shall ring; 
And he that has the warmest heart 
Shall loudest laugh and sing. 

They say we were not born to eat ; 

But gray-haired sages think 
It means, — Be moderate in your meat. 

And partly live to drink; 
For baser tribes the rivers How 

That know not wine or song; 
Man wants bnt little drink below, 

But wants that little strong. 
Then once again, etc. 

If one bright drop is like the gem 
That decks a monarch's crown, 

One goblet holds a diadem 
Of rabies melted down ! 

A fii: for Caesar's blazing brow, 
But, Like the Egyptian queen, 

Bid each dissolving jewel glow 

My thirsty li|» Let ween. 
Then once again, etc. 


The Grecian's mound, the Roman's urn, 

Are silent when we call, 
Yet still the purple grapes return 

To cluster on the wall ; 
It was a bright Immortal's head 

They circled with the vine, 
And o'er their best and bravest dead 

They poured the dark-red wine. 
Then once again, etc. 

Methinks o'er every sparkling glass 

Young Eros waves his wings, 
And echoes o'er its dimples pass 

From dead Anacreon's strings; 
And, tossing round its headed brim 

Their locks of floating gold, 
With bacchant dance and choral hymn 

Return the nymphs of old. 
Then once again, etc. 

A welcome then to joy and mirth, 
From hearts as fresh as ours, 
To scatter o'er the dust of earth 

Their sweetly mingled flowers ; 
'T is Wisdom's self the cup that fills 

In spite of Folly's frown, 
And Nature, from her vine-clad hills, 
That rains her life-blood down! 
Then once again, before we part, 

My empty glass shall ring ; 
And he that has the warmest heart 
►Shall loudest laugh and Bine. 




HE pledge of Friendship ! it is still 
Though watery floods have quenched 
its burning wine ; 
Whatever vase the sacred drops may hold, 
The gourd, the shell, the enp of beaten gold, 
Around its brim the hand of Nature throws 
A garland sweeter than the banquet's rose. 
Bright are the blushes of the vine-wreathed bowl, 
Warm with the sunshine of Anacreon's soul, 
But dearer memories gild the tasteless wave 
That fainting Sidney perished as he gave. 
'T is the heart's current lends the cup its glow, 
Whate'er the fountain whence the draught may 

flow, — 
The diamond dew-drops sparkling through the sand, 
Scooped by the Arab in his sunburnt band, 
Or the dark streamlet oozing from the snow, 
Where creep and crouch the shuddering Esqui- 
maux ; — 
Ay, in the Btream that, ere again we meet. 
Shall burst the pavement, glistening at our feet, 
And, stealing silent from its leafy hills, 
Thread all our alleys with its thousand rills, — 
In each pale draught if generous feeling blend, 
And o'er the goblet friend shall smile on friend, 
Even cold Cochituate every heart shall warm, 
And genial Nature still defy reform ! 










HE piping of our slender, peaceful reeds 
Whispers uncared for while the trumpets 

bray ; 
Song is thin air ; our hearts' exulting play 
Beats time but to the tread of marching deeds, 
Following the mighty van that Freedom leads, 
Iler glorious standard flaming to the day ! 
The crimsoned pavement where a hero bleeds 
Breathes nobler lessons than the poet's lay. 
Strong arms, broad breasts, brave hearts, are better 

Than strains that sing the ravished echoes dumb. 
Hark ! 't is the loud reverberating drum 
Rolls o'er the prairied West, the rock-bound North : 
The myriad-handed Future stretches forth 
Its shadowy palms. Behold, we come, — we come! 

Turn o'er these idle leaves. Such toys as these 
Were not unsought for, as, in languid dreams, 
We lay beside our lotus-feeding streams, 
And nursed our fancies in forgetful i 

i 9 6 

It matters little if they pall or please, 
Dropping untimely, while the sudden gleams 
Glare from the mustering clouds whose blackness 

Too swollen to hold its lightning from the trees. 
Yet, in some lull of passion, when at last 
These calm revolving moons that come and go — 
Turning our months to years, they creep so slow — 
Have brought us rest, the not unwelcome past 
May nutter to thee through these leaflets, cast 
On the wild winds that all around us blow. 

May i, 1861. 

AGNES. 14 



HE talc I tell is gospel true, 
As all the bookmen know, 
And pilgrims who have strayed to view 
The wrecks still left to show. 

The old, old story, — fair, and young, 
And fond, — and not too wise, — 

That matrons tell, with sharpened tongue, 
To maids with downcast cms. 

Ah ! maidens err and matrons warn 

Beneath the coldest sky ; 
Love lurks amid the tasselled corn 

As in the bearded 


But who would dream our Bober Bires 
Had Learned the old world'.- ways, 

And wanned their healths with lawless fires 
In Shirley's homespun days ! 

198 AGNES. 

'T is like some poet's pictured trance 

His idle rhymes recite, — 
This old New-England-born romance 

Of Agnes and the Knight ; 

Yet, known to all the country round, 
Their home is standing still, 

Between Wachusett's lonely mound 
And Shawmut's threefold hill. 

— One hour we rumble on the rail, 
One half-hour guide the rein, 

We reach at last, o'er hill and dale, 
The village on the plain. 

With blackening wall and mossy roof, 
With stained and warping floor, 

A stately mansion stands aloof 
And bars its haughty door. 

This lowlier portal may be tried, 
That breaks the gable wall; 

And lo ! with arches opening wide, 
Sir Harry Frankland's hall ! 

*T was in the second George's day 
They sought the forest shade, 

The knotted trunks they cleared away, 
The massive beams they laid, 

They piled the rock-hewn chimney tall, 

They smoothed the terraced ground, 

They reared the marble-pillared wall 

That fenced the mansion round. 

AGNES. 199 

Far stretched beyond the village bound 

The Master's broad domain; 
With page and valet, horse and hound, 

He kept a goodly train. 

And, all the midland county through, 
The ploughman stopped to gaze 

Whene'er his chariot swept in view 
Behind the sliining bays, 

With mute obeisance, grave and slow, 

Repaid by nod polite, — 
For such the way with high and low 

Till after Concord fight. 

Nor less to courtly circles known 
That graced the three-hilled town 

With far-off splendors of the Throne, 
And glimmerings from the Crown ; 

Wise Phipps, who held the seals of state 

For Shirley over sea ; 
Brave Knowles, whose press-gang moved of late 

The King Street mob's decree ; 

And judges grave, and colonels grand, 

Fair dames and stately men, 
The mighty people of the land, 

The " World " of there and then. 

? T was Btrange no Chloe's "beauteous Form," 

And "Eyes' ccelestial Blew," 
This Strephon of the West could warm. 

No Nymph his Heart subdue ! 

200 AGNES. 

Perchance he wooed as gallants use, 
Whom fleeting Loves enchain, 

But still unfettered, free to choose, 
Would brook no bridle-rein. 

He saw the fairest of the fair, 
But smiled alike on all ; 

No band his roving foot might snare, 
No ring his hand enthrall. 



IIY seeks the knight that rocky cape 
Beyond the Bay of Lynn \ 
What chance his wayward course may 
To reach its village inn ? 

No story tells ; whate'er we guess, 

The past lies deaf and still, 
Bui Fate, who rules to blight or bless, 

Can lead us where she will. 

Make way! Sir Harry's coach and four, 

And liveried grooms that ride! 
They cross the ferry, touch the shore 

On Winnisinimet's side. 

They hear the wash on Chelsea Beach, — 

The level marsh they pass, 
Where miles on miles the desert reach 
Is rough with hitter grass. 

AGNES. 20 1 

The alnning horses foam and pant, 

Ami now the smells begin 
Of fishy Swampscot, salt Nahant, 

And Leather-scented Lynn. 

Next, on their left, the slender spires, 
And glittering vanes, that crown 

The home of Salem's frugal sires, 
The old, witch-haunted town. 

So onward, o'er the rugged way 
That runs through rocks and sand, 

Showered by the tempest-driven spray, 
From bays on either hand, 

That shut between their outstretched arms 
The crews of Marblehead, 

The lords of ocean's watery forms, 
Who plough the waves for bread. 

At last the ancient inn appears, 

The spreading elm below, 
Whose napping sign these fifty years 

Has seesawed to and fro. 

How fair the azure fields in sight 

Before the low-browed inn ! 
The tumbling billows fringe with light 

The crescent shore of Lynn ; 

Nahant thrusts outward through the waves 

Her arm of yellow sand, 
And breaks the roaring singe that braves 

The gauntlet on her hand; 

202 AGNES. 

With eddying whirl the waters lock 

Yon treeless mound forlorn, 
The sharp-winged sea-low l's breeding-rock, 

That fronts the Spouting- Horn ; 

Then free the white-sailed shallops glide, 

And wide the ocean smiles, 
Till, shoreward hent, his streams divide 

The two bare Misery Isles. 

The master's silent signal stays 

The wearied cavalcade ; 
The coachman reins his smoking bays 

Beneath the elm-tree's shade. 

A gathering on the village green ! 

The cocked-hats crowd to see, 
On legs in ancient velveteen, 

With buckles at the knee. 

A clustering round the tavern-door 
Of square-toed village boys, 

Still wearing, as their grandsires wore, 
The old-world corduroys ! 

A scampering at the "Fountain " inn, — 
A rush of great and BDOall, — 

With hurrying servants' mingled din 
And screaming matron's call ! 

Poor Agnes! with her work half done 
They caught her unaware ; 

As, humbly, like a praying nun, 
She knelt upon the stair ; 

AGNES. 203 

Bent o'er the steps, with lowliest mien 
She knelt, but not to pray, — 

Her little hands must keep them clean, 
And wash their stains away. 

A foot, an ankle, bare and white, 

Her girlish shapes betrayed, — 
« Ha ! Nymphs and Graces ! " spoke the Knight ; 

Look up, my beauteous Maid ! M 

She turned, — a reddening rose in bud, 

Its calyx half withdrawn, — 
Her cheek on fire with damasked blood 

Of girlhood's glowing dawn ! 

He searched her features through and through, 

As royal lovers look 
On lowly maidens, when they woo 

Without the ring and book. 

" Come hither, Fair one ! Here, my Sweet ! 

Nay, prithee, look not down ! 
Take this to shoe those little feet," — 

Hp tossed a silver crown. 

A sudden paleness struck her brow, — 
A -witter flush succeeds ; 

It burns her cheek ; it kindles now 
Beneath her golden beads. 

She flitted, but the glittering eye 

Still sought the lovely face. 
Who was she ! What, and whence? and why 

Doomed to Buch menial place ! 

204 AGNES. 

A skipper's daughter, — so they said, — 

Left orphan by the gale 
That cost the fleet of Marble-head 

And Gloucester thirty sail. 

Ah ! many a lonely home is found 

Along the Essex shore, 
That cheered its goodman outward bound, 

And sees his face no more ! 

" Not so," the matron whispered, — " sure 

No orphan girl is she, — 
The Surraigc folk are deadly poor 

Since Edward left the sea, 

" And Mary, with her growing brood, 

Has work enough to do 
To find the children clothes and food 

With Thomas, John, and Hugh. 

"This girl of Mary's, growing tall, — 
(Just turned her sixteenth year,) — 

To earn her bread and help them all, 
Would work as housemaid here." 

So Agnes, with her golden beads, 

And naught beside as dower, 
Grew at the wayside with the weed.-, 

Herself a garden-flower. 

'T was Strange, 'twas sad, — so fresh, so fair! 

Thus Pity's voice began. 
Sueh grace! an angel's Bhape and air! 

The half-heard whisper ran. 

AGNES. . 105 

For eyes could see in George's time, 

Afl now in later days, 
And lips could shape, in prose and rhyme, 

The honeyed breath of praise. 

No time to woo ! The train must go 

Long ere the sun is down, 
To reach, before the night-winds blow, 

The many-steepled town. 

'T is midnight, — street and square arc still ; 

Dark roll the whispering waves 
That lap the piers beneath the hill 

Ridged thick with ancient graves. 

Ah, gentle sleep ! thy hand will smooth 

The weary couch of pain, 
When all thy poppies fail to soothe 

The lover's throbbing brain ! 


'T is morn, — the orange-mantled suu 
Breaks through the fading gray, 

And long and loud the Castle gun 
Peals o'er the glistening bay. 

" Thank God 't is day ! " With eager eye 
Be hails the morning's shine : — 

"If art can win, or gold can buy. 
The maiden shall be mine ! " 

206 AGNES. 


HO saw this hussy when she came 1 
What is the wench, and who ! " 
They whisper. "Agnes, — is her name ! 

Prav what lias she to do ? " 

The housemaids parley at the gate, 

The scullions on the stair, 
And in the footmen's grave dchatc 

The butler deigns to share. 

Black Dinah, stolen when a child, 

And sold on Boston pier, 
Grown up in service, petted, spoiled, 

Speaks in the coachman's ear : 

"What, all this household at his will ! 

And all are yet too few ! 
More servants, and more servants still, — 

This pert young madam loo ! " 

"Servant I fine servant ! n laughed aloud 

The man of coach and steed-; 
"She looks too fair, she steps too proud, 

This girl with golden beads I 

" I tell you, you may fret and frown, 
And call her \\h;tt you choose, 

You '11 find my Lady in her gown, 

Your Mistress in her Bhoes ! " 

AGNES. 207 

All, gentle maidens, free from blame, 

God -rant you never know 
The little whisper, Loud with shame, 

That makes the world your foe ! 

Why tell the lordly flatterer's art, 

That won the maiden's ear, — 
The fluttering of the frightened heart, 

The blush, the smile, the tear ? 

Alas ! it were the saddening tale 

That every language knows, — 
The wooing wind, the yielding sail, 

The sunbeam and the rose. 

And now the gown of sober stuff 

Has changed to fair brocade, 
With broidered hem, and hanging cufT, 

And flower of silken braid ; 

And clasped around her blanching wrist 

A jewelled bracelet shines, 
Her flowing tresses' massive twist 

A glittering net confines ; 

And mingling with their trnant wave 

A fretted chain is hung ; 
But all! the gift her mother gave, — 

Its beads are all unstrung! 

Her place is at (he master's board, 
Where none disputes her claim ; 

She walks beside the mansion's lord, 
His bride in all but name. 

208 AGNES. 

The busy tongues have ceased to talk, 
Or speak in softened tone, 

So gracious in her daily walk 
The angel light lias shown. 

No want that kindness may relieve 
Assails her heart in vain, 

The lifting of a ragged sleeve 
"Will check her palfrey's rein. 

A thoughtful calm, a quiet grace 
In every movement shown, 

Reveal her moulded for the place 
She may not call her own. 

And, save that on her youthful brow 
There broods a shadowy care, 

No matron scaled with holy vow 
In all the land so fair ! 



SHIP comes foaming up the bay, 
Along the pier she glide- ; 

Before her furrow melts away, 
A courier mounts and rides. 

" Haste, Haste, post Haste!" the letters bear 

"Sir Harry Krankland, These." 
Sa<l news to tell the loving pair 1 
The knight must cross the sea.-. 

AGNES. 209 

• Alas ! we part ! " — the lips that spoke 

Lost all their rosy red, 
As when a crystal cup is broke, 
And all its wine is shed. 

" Nay, droop not thus, — where'er/' he cried, 

•• I go by land or sea, 
My love, my life, my joy, my pride, 

Thy place is still by mc ! " 

Through town and city, far and wide, 
Their wandering feet have strayed, 

Prom Alpine lake to ocean tide, 
And cold Sierra's shade. 

At length they see the waters gleam 

Amid the fragrant bowers 
Where Lisbon mirrors in the stream 

Her belt of ancient towers. 

lied is the orange on its bough, 

To-morrow's sun shall fling 
O'er Cintra's hazel-shaded brow 

The flush of April's wing. 

The streets are loud with noisy mirth, 

They dance on every green ; 
Tin- morning's dial marks the birth 

Of proud Braganza's queen. 

At eve beneath their pictured dome 

The gilded courtier- throng : 
The broad moidores have cheated Rome 

Of all her lords of song. 

210 AGX£S 

Ah ! Lisbon dreams not of the day — 
Pleased with her painted scenes — 

When all her towers shall slide away 
As now these canvas screens ! 

The spring has passed, the summer fled, 

And yet they linger still, 
Though autumn's rustling leaves have spread 

The flank of Cintra's hill. 

The town has learned their Saxon name, 
And touched their English gold, 

Nor tale of doubt nor hint of blame 
From over sea is told. 

Three hours the first November dawn 

Has climbed with feeble ray 
Through mists like heavy curtains drawn 

Before the darkened day. 

How still the muffled echoes sleep ! 
Hark! hark! a hollow sound, — 

A noise like chariots rumbling deep 
Beneath the solid ground. 

The channel lifts, the water slides 

And bares its bar of Band, 
Anon a mountain billow strides 

And era-lies o'er the land. 

The, turrets lean, the Steeples reel 

Like masts on ocean's swell, 

And clash a Ion-, discordant peal. 
The death-doomed city's knell. 

AGNES. 211 

The pavement bursts, the earth upheaves 
Beneath the staggering town! 

The turrets crack — the ca>tle cleaves — 
The spires come rushing- down. 

Around, the lurid mountains glow 
With strange unearthly gleams ; 
While black abysses gape below, 

Then close in jagged seams. 

The earth has folded like a wave, 

And thrice a thousand score, 
Clasped] shroudless, in their closing grave, 

The sun shall see no more ! 

And all is over. Street and square 

In ruined heaps are piled; 
Ah ! where is she, so frail, so fair, 

Amid the tumult wild ? 

Unscathed, she treads the wreck-piled street, 
Whose narrow gaps afford 

A pathway for her bleeding feet, 
To seek her absent lord. 

A temple's broken walls arrest 

Her wild and wandering eyes ; 
Beneath its shattered portal pressed, 

Her lord unconscious lies. 

The power that living hearts obey 

Shall lifeless blocks withstand ' 
Love led her footsteps where he lay, — 

Love nerves her woman's hand: 


One cry, — the marble shaft she grasps, — 
Up heaves the ponderous stone : — 

He breathes, — her fainting form he clasps,— 
Her life has bought Ins own ! 



OW like the starless night of death 

Our being's brief eclipse, 
When faltering heart and failing breath 
Have bleached the lading lips ! 

She lives ! What guerdon shall repay 

His debt of ransomed life ? 
One word can charm all wrongs away, — 

The sacred name of Wife ! 

The love that won her girlish charms 

Must shield her matron fame, 
And write beneath the Frankland arms 

The village beauty's name. 

do, call the priest ! no vain delay 

Shall dim the sacred ring I 
Who knows what change the passing day. 

The fleeting hour, may brinj 


Before the holy altar bent, 
There kneels a goodly pair J 

A stately man, of high descent, 
A woman, pacing fair. 


No jewels lend the blinding sheen 

That meaner beauty needs, 
But on her bosom heaves unseen 

A -tring of golden beads. 

The vow is spoke, — the prayer is said, - 

And with a gentle pride 
The Lady Agnes lifts her head, 

Sir Harry Frankland's bride. 

No more her faithful heart shall bear 
Those griefs so meekly borne, — 

The passing Bneer, the freezing stare, 
The icy look of scorn ; 

No more the blue-eyed English dames 
Their haughty lips shall curl, 

Whene'er a hissing whisper names 
The poor New-England girl. 

But stay! — his mother's haughty brow, 
The pride of ancient race, — 

Will plighted faith, and holy vow, 
Win back her fond embrace \ 

Too well she knew the saddening talc 

Of love no vow had blest, 
That turned bis blushing honors pale 

And stained his knightly crest. 

They seek his Northern home, — aL 

He goes alone before ; — 
His own dear Agnes may not pass 
The proud, ancestral d<><>i\ 




He stood before the stately dame ; 

He spoke ; she calmly heard, 
But not to pity, nor to blame ; 

She breathed no single word. 

He told his love, — her faith betrayed ; 

She heard with tearless eyes ; 
Could she forgive the erring maid % 

She stared in cold surprise. 

How fond her heart, he told, — how true ; 

The haughty eyelids fell ; — 
The kindly deeds she loved to do ; 

She murmured, " It is well." 

But when he told that fearful day, 

And how her feet were Led 
To where entombed in life he lay, 

The breathing with the dead, 

And how she bruised her tender breasts 

Against the crushing stone, 
That still the strong-armed clown protests 

No man can lift alone, — 

then the frozen spring was broke ; 
By turns she wept and Broiled ; — 

« Sweet Agnes ! " so the mother spoke, 
"God bless my angel child I 

« She saved thee from the jaws of death, - 
'T is thine t<> righl her wrongs ; 

1 tell thee, — T, who gave thee breath,— 

To her thy life belongs! " 

AGNES. 215 

Tims Agnes won her noble name, 

Ber lawless lover'.- hand; 
The lowly maided so became 

A lady in the land ! 



IIE tale is done ; it little needs 
To track their after way-. 
And string again the golden beads 
Of love's uncounted days. 

They leave the fair ancestral isle 
For bleak New England's shore; 

How gracious is the courtly smile 
Of all who frowned before ! 

Again through Lisbon's orange bowers 

They watch the river's gleam, 
And shudder as her shadowy towers 

Shake in the trembling stream. 

Fate parts at length the fondest pair ; 

His cheek, alas! grows pale; 
The breast that trampling death could spare 

His noiseless shafts assail. 

He Longs to change the heaven of blue 
For England's clonded Bky, — 

To breathe the air his boyhood knew ; 
He seeks them hut to die. 

2i 6 AGNES. 

— Hard by the terraced hill-side town, 
Where healing streamlets run, 

Still sparkling with their old renown, — 
The "Waters of the Sun," — 

The Lady Agnes raised the stone 
That marks his honored grave, 

And there Sir Harry Bleeps alone 
By Wiltshire Avon's wave. 

The home of early love was dear ; 

She sought its peaceful shade, 
And kept her state for many a year, 

With none to make afraid. 

At last the evil days were come 
That saw the red cross fall ; 

She hears the rebels' rattling drum, — 
Farewell to Frankland Hall ! 

— I tell you, as my talc began, 
The Hall is standing still : 

And you, kind listener, maid or man, 
May see it if you will. 

The box is glistening huge and green, 

Like trees the lilacs grow. 
Three elms high-arching still are seen. 

And one lies stretched below. 

The hangings, rough with velvet flowers. 
Flap on the latticed wall ; 

And o'er the mossy ridge-pole towers 
The ro<k-hcw n chimney tall. 


The doors on mighty hinges clash 
With massive bolt and bar, 

The heavy English-moulded sash 
Scarce can the night-winds jar. 

Behold the chosen room he sought 

Alone, to fast and pray, 
Each year, as chill November brought 

The dismal earthquake day. 

There hung the rapier blade he wore, 
Bent in its Battened sheath ; 

The coat the shrieking woman tore 
Caught in her clenching teeth ; — 

The coat with tarnished silver lace 
She snapped at as she slid, 

And down upon her death-white faco 
Crashed the huge coffin's lid. 

A graded terrace yet remains; 

11' on its turf you stand 
And look along the wooded plains 

That stretch on either hand, 

The broken forest walls define 

A dim, receding view, 
Where, on the far horizon's line, 

Ilr cut his vista through. 

If further Btory ymi .-hall crave, 
Or ask for living proof, 

c old Julia, bom a slave 

Beneath Sir Barrj 's roof. 


2i 8 AGNES. 

She told me half that I have told, 

And she remembers well 
The mansion as it looked of old 

Before its glories fell ; — 

The box, when round the terraced square 

Its glossy wall was drawn ; 
The climbing vines, the snow-balls fair, 

The roses on the lawn. 

And Julia says, with truthful look 
Stamped on her wrinkled face, 

That in her own black hands she took 
The coat with silver lace. 

And you may hold the story light, 

Or, if you like, believe ; 
But there it was, the woman's bite, — 

A mouthful from the sleeve. 

Now go your ways ; — I need not tell 

The moral of my rhyme; 
But, youths and maidens, ponder well 

This tale of olden time ! 




RJLL SOCIETY, OCT. 4, 1 849. 

LEAK the brown path, to meet his coul- 
ter's gleam ! 
Lo ! on he comes, behind his smoking 

With toil's bright dew-drops on his sunburnt brow, 
The lord of earth, the hero of the plough ! 

First in the field before the reddening sun, 
in the shadows when the day is done, 
Line after line, along the bursting sod, 
Marks the broad acres where his feet have trod; 
Still, where he treads, the stubborn clods divide, 
The smooth, fresh furrow opens dee}) and wide; 
Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves, 
Mellow and dark the ridgy cornfield cleaves; 
Up the Bteep hill-side, where the laboring train 
Slants the long track that scores the level plain, 
Through the moist valley, clogged with oozing clay, 
The patient convoy breaks it- destined way; 
At every turn the Loosening chains resound, 
The Bwinging ploughshare circles glistening round, 
Till the wide field one billowy waste appears, 
And wearied hands unbind the panting 

These arc the hands whose Btordy labor brings 
The peasant's food, the golden pomp of kings: 


This is the page, whose letters shall be seen 
Changed by the sun to words of living green ; 
This is the scholar, whose immortal pen 
Spells the first lesson hunger taught to men ; 
These are the lines that heaven-commanded Toil 
Shows on his deed, — the charter of the soil ! 

gracious Mother, whose benignant breast 
Wakes us to life, and lulls us all to rest, 
How thy sweet features, kind to every clime, 
Mock with their smile the wrinkled front of time ! 
We stain thy flowers, — they blossom o'er the dead ; 
We rend thy bosom, and it gives us bread ; 
O'er the red field that trampling strife has torn, 
Waves the green plumage of thy tasselled corn ; 
Our maddening conflicts scar thy fairest plain, 
Still thy soft answer is the growing grain. 
Yet, our Mother, while uncounted charms 
Steal round our hearts in thine embracing arms, 
Let not our virtues in thy love decay, 
And thy fond sweetness waste our strength away. 

No! by these hills, whose banners now displayed 
Injblazing cohorts Autumn lias arrayed : 
By yon twin summits, on whose splintery crests 
The tossing hemlocks hold the eagles' nests; 
By these fair plains the mountain circle screens, 
And feeds with streamlets from its dark ravines; — 
True to their home, these faithful arms shall toil 
To crown with peace their own untainted soil; 
And, true to God, t<» freedom, to mankind, 
[f her chained bandogs Paction shall unbind, 
These Btately forms, thai bending even now 
Bowed their strong manhood to the humble plough, 

A POEM. 221 

Shall rise erect, the guardians of the land, 
The Bame stern iron in the same right hand, 
Till o'er their hills the shouts of triumph run; 
The sword has rescued what the ploughshare won ! 


SEPTEMBER 9, 1850. 

XGEL of Death ! extend thy silent reign ! 

Stretch thy dark sceptre o'er this new 
domain ! 

Xo sable car along the winding road 
Has borne to earth its unresisting load; 
No sudden mound has risen yet to show 
Where the pale slumberer folds his arms below ; 
No marble gleams to bid his memory live 
In the brief lines that hurrying Time can give ; 
Yet, Destroyer! from thy shrouded throne 
Look on our gift ; tliis realm is all thine own ! 

Fair is the scene; its sweetness oft beguiled 
From their dim paths the children of the wild; 
The dark-haired maiden Loved its grassy dells, 
The feathered warrior claimed its wooded swells, 
Still on its Blopes the ploughman's ridges show 
The pointed Hints that left his fatal bow, 
('hipped with rough art and slow barbarian toil, — 
Last of his wrecks that strews the alien soil ! 

222 A POEM. 

Here spread the fields that heaped their ripened 
Till the brown arms of Labor held no more ; 
The scythe's broad meadow with its dusky blush; 
The sickle's harvest with its velvet Mush; 
The green-haired maize, her silken tresses laid, 
In soft luxuriance, on her harsh brocade; 
The gourd that swells beneath her tossing plume; 
The coarser wheat that rolls in lakes of bloom, — 
Its coral stems and milk-white flowers alive 
With the wide murmurs of the scattered hive ; 
Here glowed the apple with the pencilled Btreak 
Of morning painted on its southern cheek ; 
The pear's long necklace strung with golden drops, 
Arched, like the banian, o'er its pillared props; 
Here crept the growths that paid the laborer'.- care 
With the cheap luxuries wealth consents to Bpare ; 
Here sprang the healing herbs which could not save 
The hand that reared them from the neighboring 

Yet all its varied charms, forever free 

From task and tribute, Labor yields to thee : 

Xo more, when April sheds her fitful rain, 

The sower's hand shall cast its Hying grain ; 

No more, when Autumn strews the flaming leaves, 

The reaper's band shall gird its yellow sheaV( - ; 

For thee alike the circling seasons flow 

Till the first blossoms heave the latest snow. 

In the Stiff clod below the whirling drifts. 

In the loose soil the springing herbage lifts, 

In the hot dust beneath the parching weeds, 

Life's withering flower shall drop its shrivelled seed- ; 

Its germ entranced in thy (inbreathing Bleep 

Till what thou sowesl mightier angels reap! 



Spirit of Beautyl let thy graces blend 

With Loveliest Nature all that Art can lend. 

Conic from the bowers where Summer's life-blood 

Through the red lips of June's half-open rose, 
I tressed in bright hues, the loving sunshine's dower; 
For tranquil Nature owns no mourning flower. 

Come from the forest where the beech's screen 
Bars the fierce noonbeam with its flakes of green; 
Stay the rude axe that 1 tares the shadowy plains, 
Stanch the deep wound that dries the maple's 

Come with the stream whose silver-braided rills 
Fling their unclasping bracelets from the hills, 
Till in one gleam, beneath the forest's wings, 
Melts the white glitter of a hundred springs. 

Come from the steeps where look majestic forth 
Prom their twin thrones the Giants of the North 
On the huge shape-, that, crouching at their knees, 
Stretch their broad shoulders, rough with shaggy 

Through the wide waste of ether, not in vain, 
Their softened gaze shall reach our distant plain; 
There, while the mourner turns his aching eyes 
On the blue mounds that print the bluer skies, 
Nature shall whisper that the fading view 
()f mightiest grief may wear a heavenly hue. 

Cherub of Wisdom ! let thy marble page 
Leave its sad Lesson, new to every age ; 

Teach us to live, not grudging every breath 

To the chill winds that waft us on to death, 
But ruling calmly every pulse it warms, 

And tempering gently every word it form-. 

224 A POEM. 

Seraph of Love ! in heaven's adoring zone, 
Nearest of all around the central throne. 
While with soft hands the pillowed turf we spread 
That soon shall hold us in its dreamless bed, 
With the low whisper, — Who shall first be laid 
In the dark chamber's yet unbroken shade? — 
Let thy sweet radiance shine rekindled here, 
And all we cherish grow more truly dear. 
Here in the gates of Death's overhanging vault, 
O, teaeh us kindness for our brother's fault ; 
Lay all our wrongs beneath this peaceful sod, 
And lead our hearts to Mercy and its God. 

Father of all ! in Death's relentless claim 
We read thy mercy by its sterner name ; 
In the bright flower that decks the solemn bier, 
We see thy glory in its narrowed sphere ; 
In the deep lessons that affliction draws, 
We trace the curves of thy encircling laws ; 
In the long sigh that sets our spirits free, 
We own the love that calls us back to Thee ! 

Through the hushed street, along the silent plain, 
The spectral future leads its mourning train, 
Dark with the shadows of uncounted bands, 
Where man's white lips and woman's wringing hands 
Track the still burden, rolling Blow before, 
That love and kindness can protect no more; 
The smiling babe that, called to mortal strife, 
Shuts its meek eves and drops its little life J 

The drooping child who prays in vain to live, 

Ami pleads for help its parent cannot give ; 

The pride of beamy stricken in its flower j 

The strength of manhood broken in an hour; 

riCTURES. 225 

Age in its weakness, bowed by toil and earc, 
Traced in sad lines beneath its silvered hair. 
Thesnn BhaU sot, and heaven's resplendent spheres 

Gild tin' smooth tnrf unhallowed yet by tears, 
But ah ! how soon the evening stars will shed 
Their sleepless light around the slumbering" dead ! 

Take them, Father, in immortal trust ! 
A>hes to ashes, dust to kindred dust, 
Till the last angel rolls the stone away, 
And a new morning brings eternal day ! 


1850- 56. 


INTER is past ; the heart of Nature warms 
Beneath the wrceks of unresisted storms ; 
Doubtful at first, suspected more than 

The southern slopes arc fringed with tender green; 
On sheltered hanks, beneath the dripping eaves, 
Spring's earliest nurslings spread their glowing leaves, 
Bright with the hues from wider pictures won, 
White, azure, golden, — drift, or sky, or sun; — 
The Bnowdrop, bearing on her patient breast 
The frozen trophy turn from Winter's crest \ 
The violet, gazing on the arch of blue 
Till her own iris wears its deepened hue; 



The spendthrift crocus, bursting through the mould 
Naked and Bhivering with his cup of gold. 
Swelled with new life, the darkening elm ou high 

Prints her thick buds against the spotted sky; 
On all her boughs the stately chestnut cleaves 
The gummy shroud that wraps her embryo leaves : 

The house-fly, stealing from his narrow grave, 
Drugged with the opiate that November gave, 
Beats with faint wing against the sunny pane, 
Or crawls, tenacious, o'er its lucid plain ; 
From shaded chinks of lichen-crusted walls, 
In languid curves, the gliding serpent crawls; 
The bog's green harper, thawing from his sleep, 
Twangs a hoarse note and tries a shortened leap ; 
On floating rails that face the softening noons 
The still shy turtles range their dark platoons, 
Or, toiling aimless o'er the mellowing fields, 
Trail through the grass their tessellated shields. 

At last young April, ever frail and fair, 
"Wooed by her playmate with the golden hair, 
Chased to the margin of receding floods 
O'er the soft meadows starred with opening buds, 
In tears and hlushes sighs herself away, 
And hides her cheek beneath the flowers of May. 

Then the proud tulip lights her beacon blaze, 
Her clustering curls the hyacinth displays, 
O'er her tall blades the crested fleur-de-lis, 
Like blue-eyed Pallas, towers erect and free; 
With yellower flames the Lengthened sunshine glows, 

And love lays hare the jiassion-hreathin- rosej 

Queen <>r the lake, along its reedy verge 
The rival lily hastens to emerge, 


Ber snowy shoulders glistening as she strips, 
Till mum is sultan of her parted lips. 

Then hursts the song from every leafy glade, 
The yielding Jason's bridal serenade ; 
Then flash the wings returning Summer ealls 
Through the deep arches of her forest halls ; — 
The bluebird, breathing from his azure plumes 
The fragrance borrowed where the myrtle blooms; 
The thrush, poor wanderer, dropping meekly down, 
Clad in his remnant of autumnal brown; 
The oriole, drifting like a flake of fire 
Kent by a whirlwind from a blazing spire. 
The robin, jerking his spasmodic throat, 
Repeats, imperious, his stacedto note; 
The crack-brained bobolink courts his crazy mate, 
Poised on a bulrush tipsy with his weight; 
Nay, in his cage the lone canary sings, 
Feels the soft air, and spreads his idle wings. 

Why dream I here within these caging walls, 
Deaf to her voice, while blooming Nature calls; 
Peering and gazing with insatiate looks 
Through blinding lenses, or in wearying books? 
Off, gloomy Bpectros of the shrivelled past! 
Fly with the leaves that fill the autumn blast ! 
Yc imp- of* Science, whose relentless chains 
Lock the warm tides within these Living veins, 
Close yOUT dim cavern, while its captive strays 

Dazzled and giddy in the morning's blaze! 



ET in the darksome crypt I left .so late, 
Whose only altar is its rusted grate, — 
Sepulchral, rayless, joyless as it seems, 
Shamed by the glare of May's refulgent 
beams, — 
While the dim seasons dragged their shrouded train, 
Its paler splendors were not quite in vain. 
From these dull bars the cheerful firelight's glow 
Streamed through the casement o'er the spectral 

snow ; 
Here, while the night-wind wreaked its frantic will 
On the loose ocean and the rock-bound hill, 
Rent the cracked topsail from its quivering yard, 
And rived the oak a thousand storms had scarred, 
Fenced by these walls the peaceful taper shone, 
Nor felt a breath to slant its trembling cone. 

Not all unblest the mild interior scene 
When the red curtain spread its falling screen; 
O'er some light task the lonely hours were past, 
And the long evening only Hew too fast , 
Or the wide chair its Leathern anus would lend 
In genial welcome to some easy friend, 
Stretched on its bosom with relaxing nerves, 
Slow moulding, plastic, to its hollow curves; 
Perchance indulging, If of generous creed, 
In brave Sir Walter's dream-compelling weed. 
Or, happier still, the evening hour would bring 

To the round table its expected ring, 

And while the punch-bowl's Bounding depths were 

stirred, — 
Its silver cherubs smiling as they heard, — 


Our hearts would open, as at evening's hour 
The close-sealed primrose frees its hidden flower. 

Such the warm life this dim retreat has known, 
Not quite deserted when its quests were flown; 
Nay, tilled with friends, an unobtrusive set, 
Guiltless of calls and cards and etiquette, 
Ready to answer, never known to ask, 
Claiming no service, prompt for every task. 

On those dark shelves no housewife hand pro- 
O'er his mute files the monarch folio reigns ; 
A mingled race, the wreck of chance and time, 
That talk all tongues and breathe of every clime, 
Bach knows his place, and each may claim his part 
In some quaint corner of his master's heart. 
This old Decretal, won from Kloss's hoards, 
Thick-leaved, brass-cornered, ribbed with oaken 

Stands the gray patriarch of the graver rows, 
In fourth ripe century narrowing to its close ; 
Not daily conned, but glorious still to view, 
With glistening letters wrought in red and blue. 
There towers Stagira's all-embracing sage, 
The Aldine anchor on his opening page ; 
There Bleep the births of Plato's heavenly mind, 
In yon dark tomb by jealous clasps confined, 
" I Him e libris " — (dare I call it mine ?) 
Of Vale's grave Head and Killingworth's divine ! 
In those square Bheeta the songs of Maro lill 
The silvery types <»f smooth-leaved Baskerville ; 
High over all, in close, compact array, 
Their classic wealth the Elzevirs display. 


In lower regions of the sacred space 
Range the dense volumes of a humbler race ; 
There grim chirurgeons all their mysteries teach, 
In spectral pictures, or in crabbled speech ; 
Harvey and Haller, fresh from Nature's page, 
Shoulder the dreamers of an earlier age, 
Lully and Geber, and the learned crew 
That loved to talk of all they could not do. 
"Why count the rest, — those names of* later days 
That many love, and all agree to praise, — 
Or point the titles, where a glance may read 
The dangerous lines of party or of creed ? 
Too well, perchance, the chosen list would show 
What few may care and none can claim to know. 
Each has his features, whose exterior seal 
A brush may copy, or a sunbeam steal ; 
Go to his study, — on the nearest shelf 
Stands the mosaic portrait of himself. 

What though for months the tranquil dust de- 
Whitening the heads of these mine ancient friends, 
While the damp offspring of the modern pn 
Flaunts on my table with its pictured dress ; 
Not less I love each dull familiar face, 
Nor less should miss it from the appointed place; 
I snatch the book, along- whose burning Leaves 
His scarlet web our wild romancer weaves. 
Yet, while proud Hester's fiery pangs 1 share, 
My old Magnalia must be standing tin n ! 



HEX o'er the street the morning peal is 
From yon tall belfry with the brazen 

Its wide vibrations, wafted by the gale, 
To each far listener tell a different tale. 

The sexton, stooping to the quivering floor 
Till the great caldron spills its brassy roar, 
Whirls the hot axle, counting, one by one, 
Each dull concussion, till his task is done. 

Toil's patient daughter, when the welcome note 
Clangs through the silence from the steeple's throat, 
Streams, a white unit, to the checkered street, 
Demure, but guessing whom she soon shall meet; 
The bell, responsive to her secret flame, 
With every note repeats her lover's name. 

The lover, tenant of the neighboring lane, 
Sighing, and fearing lest he sigh in vain, 
Hears the stern accents, as they come and go, 
Their only burden one despairing No ! 

Ocean's rough child, whom many a shore has 
Ere homeward breezes swept him to his own, 
Starts at the echo as it circles round, 
A thousand memories kindling with the Bound ; 
The early favorite's unforgotten charms, 
Whose blue initials stain his tawny am 
Hia first farewell, the flapping canvas spread, 
The seaward Streamers crackling o'er his head, 
His kind, pale mother, not ashamed to weep 
Her first-born's bridal with the haggard deep, 

2 3 2 


While the brave father stood with tearless-eye, 
Smiling and choking with his last good-by. 

"Tis but a wave, whose spreading circle heats, 
With the same impulse, every nerve it meets, 
Yet who shall count the varied shapes that ride 
On the round surge of that aerial tide ! 

O child of earth ! If floating sounds like these 
Steal from thyself their power to wound or please. 
If here or there thy changing will inclines, 
As the bright zodiac shifts its rolling signs, 
Look at thy heart, and when its depths are known, 
Then try thy brother's, judging by thine own, 
But keep thy wisdom to the narrower range, 
While its own standards are the sport of change, 
Nor count us rebels when we disobey 
The passing breath that holds thy passion's sway. 


ERIIAPS too far 
lias patience carried 
ways ; 

in these considerate 
ler submissive 

Wisdom has taught us to be calm and meek, 
To take one blow, and turn the other cheek ; 
It i> Dot Written what a man Bhall do, 
W the rude caitiff strike the other too ! 

Land of our fathers, in thine hour of need 
God help thee, guarded by the passive creed ! 


As the lone pilgrim trusts to beads and cowl, 
When through the forest rings the graywolf's howl ; 
As the deep galleon trusts her gilded prow 
When the black corsair slants athwart her how; 
Aa the poor pheasant, with his peaceful mien, 
Trust.- to his feathers, shining golden-green, 
When the dark plumage with the crimson beak 
Has rustled shadowy from its splintered peak ; 
80 trust thy friends, whose babbling tongues would 

The lifted sabre from thy foeman's arm, 
Thy torches ready for the answering peal 
From bellowing fort and thunder-freighted keel ! 


ON whey-faced brother, who delights to 

A weedy flux of ill-conditioned hair, 
®\ Seems of the sort that in a crowded place 
One elbows freely into smallest space; 
A timid creature, lax of knee and hip, 
Whom small disturbance whitens round the lip ; 
One of those harmless spectacled machines, 
The Holy-Week of Protestants convenes : 
Whom schoolboys question if their walk transcends 
The last advices of maternal friends ; 
Whom John, obedient to his master's sign, 

Conducts, laborious, up to uin< tij-iiln<>, 
While Peter, glistening with luxurious scorn, 
Husks his white ivories like an ear of corn ; 


Dark in the brow and bilious in the cheek, 
Whose yellowish linen flowers but once a week, 
Conspicuous, annual, in their threadbare suits, 
And the laced high-lows which they call their boots. 
Well mayst thou shun that dingy front severe, 
But him, O stranger, him thou canst not J tar I 

Be slow to judge, and slower to despise, 
Man of broad shoulders and heroic size ! 
The tiger, writhing from the boa's rings, 
Drops at the fountain where the cobra stings. 
In that lean phantom, whose extended glove 
Points to the text of universal love, 
Behold the master that can tame thee down 
To crouch, the vassal of his Sunday frown ; 
His velvet throat against thy corded wrist, 
Ilis loosened tongue against thy doubled list ! 

The Morjul Bully, though he never swears, 
Nor kicks intruders down his entry stairs, 
Though meekness plains his backward-sloping hat, 
And non-resistance ties his white cravat, 
Though his black broadcloth glories t<> be seen 
In the same plight with Shylock's gaberdine, 
I In-- the same passion to his narrow breast 

That heaves the cuiraas on the trooper's chest, 
Hears the >ame hell-hounds veiling in his rear 
That chase from port the maddened buccaneer, 

Feels the same comfort while his acrid words 

Turn the BWeet milk of kindness into enrds, 

Or with grim logic prove, beyond debate, 

That all we Love is worthiest of OUT hate, 

As the scarred ruffian of the pirate's deck, 

When his long swivel rakes the staggering wreck ! 


Heaven keep us all ! Is every raseal clown 
Whose arm is stronger free to knock us down? 
lias every scarecrow, whose cachectic soul 
Seems fresh from Bedlam, airing on parole, 
Who, though he carries but a doubtful trace 
( )f angel visits on his hungry face, 
From lack of marrow or the coins to pay, 
I la- dodged some vices in a shabby way, 
The right to stick us with his cutthroat terms, 
And bait Ins homilies with his brother worms? 


O life worth naming ever comes to pood 
If always nourished on the self-same 

food ; 
The creeping mite may live so if he please, 
And feed on Stilton till he turns to cheese, 
Hut cool Magendie proves beyond a doubt, 
If mammals try it, that their eyes drop out. 

No reasoning natures find it safe to feed, 
For their sole diet, on a single creed ; 
It Bpoilfl their eyeballs while it spares their tongues, 
And starves the heart to feed the noisy lungs. 

When the first larva' on the elm are seen, 
The crawling wretches, like its leaves, are green ; 
Ere chill October shakes the latest down, 
They, like the foliage, change their tint to brown ; 
On the blue flower a bluer flower you spy, 
You stretch to pluck it — 't is a butterfly ; 


The flattened tree-toads so resemble bark, 
They're hard to find as Ethiops in the dark; 
The woodcock, stiffening to fictitious mud, 
Cheats the young sportsman thirsting for his blood. 
So by long living on a single lie, 
Nay, on one truth, will creatures get its dye ; 
Red, yellow, green, they take their subject's hue, — 
Except when squabbling turns them black and blue ! 


E trust and fear, we question and believe, 
From life's dark threads a trembling faith 

to weave, 
Frail as the web that misty night has >pun. 
Whose dew-gemmed awnings glitter in the sun. 
"While the calm centuries spell their lessons out, 
Each truth we conquer spreads the realm of doubt; 
When Sinai's summit was Jehovah's throne, 
The chosen Prophet knew his voice alone; 
When Pilate's hall that awful question heard, 
The Heavenly Captive answered not a word. 

Eternal Truth ! beyond our hopes and fears 
Sweep the vast orbits of thy myriad spheres ! 
From age to age, while History carves sublime 
( hi her waste rock the flaming curves of time, 
How the wild SWayingS of our planet show 
That worlds unseen surround the world we know ! 


of) •£>: 




HE curtain rose ; in thunders long and 
The galleries rung ; the veteran actor 

In flaming line the telltales of the stage 
Showed on hia brow the autograph of age ; 
Pale, huelesfi waves amid his clustered hair, 
And umbered shadows, prints of toil and care ; 
Round the wide circle glanced his vacant eye, — 
He strove to speak, — his voice was but a sigh. 

Year after year had seen its short-lived race 
Flit past the Bcenes and others take their place ; 
Vet the old prompter watched his accents still, 
His name still Haunted on the evening's bill. 
Heroes, the monarchs of the scenic floor, 
Had died in earnest and were heard no more; 
Beauties, whose cheeks such roseate hloom o'er- 

They faced the footlights in unborrowed red, 
Had faded .-lowly through successive shades 
To gray duennas, foils of younger maids ; 
Sweet voices lost the melting tones that start 
With Southern throbs the sturdy Saxon heart, 
While fresh sopranos Bhook the painted sky 
With their long, breathless, quivering locust-cry. 
Yet there he stood, — the man of other days, 
In the clear present's full, unsparing Maze, 
As on the oak a faded Leaf that clings 
While a new April Bpreads its burnished wings. 


How bright yon rows that soared in triple tier, 
Their central sun the Bashing chandelier ! 

How dim the eye that sought with doubtful aim 
Some friendly smile it still might dare to claim ! 
How fresh these hearts ! his own how worn and 

Such the sad thoughts that long-drawn Bigh had told. 

No word yet faltered on his trembling tongue ; 
Again, again, the crashing galleries rung. 
As the old guardsman at the bugle's blast 
Hears in its strain the echoes of the past ; 
So, as the plaudits rolled and thundered round, 
A life of memories startled at the sound. 

He lived again, — the page of earliest days, — 
1 )ays of small fee and parsimonious praise ; 
Then lithe young Romeo — hark that silvered tone, 
From those smooth lips — alas ! they were his own. 
Then the bronzed Moor, with all his love and woe, 
Told his strange tale of midnight melting snow; 
And dark-plumed Hamlet, with his cloak and blade, 
Looked on the royal ghost, himself a shade. 
All in one Hash, his youthful memories came, 
Traced in bright hues of evanescent flame, 
As the spent swimmer's in the lifelong dream, 
While the last bubble rises through the stream. 

Call him not old, whose visionary brain 
Holds o'er the past its undivided reign. 
For him in vain the envious Beasons roll 

Who bears eternal summer in his SOUL 

If yet the minstrel's Bong, the poet's lay, 

Spring with her birds, or children at their play, 

Or maiden's smile, or heavenly dream of art, 

Stir the few life-drops creeping round his heart, 


Turn to the record where his years are told, — 
Count his gray hairs, — they cannot make him 
old ! 

What magic power has changed the faded mime ? 
One breath of memory on the dust of time. 
As the last window in the buttressed wall 
( )f Bome gray minster tottering to its fall, 
Though to the passing crowd its hues are spread, 
A dull mosaic, yellow, green, and red, 
Viewed from within, a radiant glory shows 
When through its pictured screen the sunlight flows, 
And kneeling pilgrims on its storied pane 
Sec angels glow in every Bhapeless stain; 
So Btreamed the vision through his sunken eye, 
Clad in the splendors of his morning sky. 

All the wild hopes his eager boyhood knew, 
All the young fancies riper years proved true, 
The sweet, low-whispered words, the winning glance 
Prom queens of song, from Ilouris of the dance, 
Wealth's lavish gift, and Flattery's soothing phrase, 
And Beauty's silence when her blush was praise, 
And melting Pride, her lashes wet with tears, 
Triumphs and banquets, wreaths and crowns and 

Pangs of wild joy that perish on the tongue, 
And all that poets dream, hut leave unsung ! 

In every heart some viewless founts are fed 
From far-off hill-sides where the dews were shed ; 
On the worn features of the weariest face 
Some youthful memory leaves its hidden trace, 
As in old gardens left by exiled kings 
The marble basins tell of hidden springs, 
Put, gray with dust, and overgrown witli weeds, 
Their choking jets the passer little heeds, 


Till time's revenges break their seals away, 
And, clad in rainbow light, the waters play. 

Good night, fond dreamer ! let the curtain fall : 
The world 's a stage, and wc are players all. 
A strange rehearsal ! Kings without their crowns, 
And threadbare lords, and jewel-wearing clowns, 
Speak the vain words that mock their throbbing 

As Want, stern prompter ! spells them out their parts. 
The tinselled hero whom we praise and pay 
Ts twice an actor in a twofold play. 
Wc smile at children when a painted screen 
Seems to their simple eyes a real scene ; 
Ask the poor hireling, who has left his throne 
To seek the cheerless home he calls his own, 
Which of his double lives most real seems, 
The world of solid fact or scenic dreams ? 
Canvas, or clouds, — the footlights, or the spheres, — 
The play of two short hours, or seventy years ! 
Dream on! Though Heaven may woo our oped 

Through their closed lids we look on fairer skies ; 
Truth is for other worlds, and hope for this ; 
The cheating future lends the present's l»li>s ; 
Life is a running shade, with fettered hands, 
That chases phantoms over Bhifting sands ; 
Death a still spectre on a marble seat, 
With ever clutching palms and shackled feet ; 
The airy shapes that mock life's slender chain, 
The Hying joys be strives to clasp in vain. 
Death only grasps ; to live is to pursue, — 
Dream on ! there 's nothing but illusion true ! 



E that have faced the billows and the spray 
( )f good St. Botolph's island-studded bay, 
Afl from the gliding bark your eye has 

The beaconed rocks, the wave-girt hills of sand, 
Have ye not marked one elm-o'ershadowed isle, 
Round as the dimple chased in beauty's smile, — 
A stain of verdure on an azure field, 
Set like a jewel in a battered shield'? 
Fixed in the narrow gorge of Ocean's path, 
Peaceful it meets him in his hour of wrath ; 
WTieo the mailed Titan, Bconrged by hissing piles, 
Writhes in his glistening coat of clashing scales; 
The storm-beat island spreads its tranquil green, 
Calm as an emerald on an angry queen. 

So fair when distant should be fairer near ; 
A boat shall waft us from the outstretched pier. 
The breeze blows fresh ; we reach the island's edge, 
Our shallop rustling through the yielding sedge. 

No welcome greets us on the desert isle ; 
Those elms, far-shadowing, hide no stately pile : 
Yet these green ridges mark an ancient road; 
And lo ! the traces of a fair abode ; 
The long gray line that marks a garden-wall, 
And heaps of fallen beams, — lire-branded all. 

Who sees unmoved, a ruin at his feet, 
The lowliest home where human hearts have beat? 
Its hearth-Stone, shaded with the bistre stain 
A century's Bhowery torrents wash in vain; 
Its Btarving orchard, where the thistle blows 
And mossy trunks still mark the broken rows; 


Its chimney-loving poplar, oftenest seen 
Next an old roof, or where a roof has been ; 
Its knot-grass, plantain, — all the social weeds, 
Man's mute companions, following where he leads; 
Its dwarfed, pale flowers, that show their straggling 

Sown by the wind from grass-choked garden-beds ; 
Its woodbine, creeping where it used to climb; 
Its roses, breathing of the olden time ; 
All the poor shows the curious idler sees, 
As life's thin shadows waste by slow degrees, 
Till naught remains, the saddening tale to tell, 
Save home's last wrecks, — the cellar and the well ! 
And whose the home that strews in black decay 
The one green-glowing island of the bay ? 
Some dark-brow r ed pirate's, jealous of the fate 
That seized the strangled wretch of "Nix's Mate"? 
Some forger's, skulking in a borrowed name, 
Whom Tyburn's dangling halter vet may claim ? 
Some wan-eyed exile's, wealth and sorrow's heir, 
Who sought alone retreat for tears and prayer i 
Some brooding poet's, sure of deathless fame, 
Had not his epic perished in the llame ? 
Or some gray wooer's, whom a girlish frown 
Chased from his solid friends and sober town? 
Or some plain tradesman's, fond of shade and 

Who sought them both beneath these quiet trees . z 
Why question mntes no question can unlock, 
Dumb as the legend on the DightOD rock \ 
One thing at Least these ruined beapa declare, — 
They were a shelter once; a man Lived there. 

But where the charred and crumbling records fail, 
Sonic breathing lips may piece the half-told tale ; 


No man may live with neighbors such as these, 
Though girt with walls of rock and angry seas, 
And shield his home, his children, or his wife, 
His ways, his means, his vote, his creed, his life, 
From the dread sovereignty of Ears and Eyes 
And the small member that beneath them lies. 

They told strange tilings of that mysterious man ; 
Believe who will, deny them'such as can ; 
Why should we fret if every passing sail 
Had its old seaman talking on the rail ? 
The deep-sunk schooner stuffed with Eastern lime, 
Slow wedging on, as if the waves were slime; 
The knife-edged clipper with her ruffled spars, 
The pawing steamer with her mane of stars, 
The bull-browed galliot butting through the stream, 
The wide-sailed yacht that slipped along her beam, 
The deck-piled sloops, the pinched chebacco-boats, 
The frigate, black with thunder-freighted throats, 
All had their talk about the lonely man ; 
And thus, in varying phrase, the story ran. 

His name had cost him little care to seek, 
Plain, honest, brief, a decent name to speak, 
Common, not vulgar, just the kind that slips 
"With least suggestion from a stranger's lips. 
Hi- birthplace England, as his speech might show, 
Or his hale cheek, that wore the red-streak's glow; 
His mouth sharp-moulded ; in its mirth or scorn 
There came a flash as from the milky corn, 
When from the ear you rip the rustling sheath, 
And the white ridges show their even teeth. 
His stature moderate, but hi.^ strength confessed, 
In spite of broadcloth, by his ample breast; 
Full-armed, thick-handed; one that had been strong, 
And might be dangerous still, if things went wrong. 


He lived at ease beneath his elm-trees' shade, 
Did naught for gain, yet all his debts were paid ; 

Rich, so 't was thought, but careful of" his store ; 

Had all he needed, claimed to have no more. 

But some that lingered round the isle at night 
Spoke of strange stealthy doings in their sight ; 
Of creeping lonely visits that he made 
To nooks and corners, with a torch and spade. 
Some said they saw the hollow of a cave ; 
One, given to fables, swore it was a grave ; 
Whereat some shuddered, others boldly cried, 
Those prowling boatmen lied, and knew they lied. 

They said his house was framed with curious cares, 
Lest some old friend might enter unawares ; 
That on the platform at his chamber's door 
Hinged a loose square that opened through the floor ; 
Touch the black silken tassel next the bell, 
Down, with a crash, the Happing trap-door fell ; 
Three stories deep the falling wretch would strike, 
To writhe at leisure on a boarder's pike. 

By day armed always ; double-armed at night, 
His tools lay round him ; wake him such as might. 
A carbine hung beside his India Ian, 
His hand could reach a Turkish ataghan ; 
Pistols, with quaint-Carved stocks and barrels gilt, 
Crossed a Ion- - dagger with a jewelled hilt ; 
A slashing cutlass stretched along the bed ; — 
All this was what those lying boatmen said. 

Then some were full of wondrous stories told 
About old chests and cupboards full of gold; 
Of the wedged ingots and the Bihrer bars 
That C0S1 old pirates ngly sabre-sears; 
How his laced wallet often would disgorge 
The fresh-faced guinea of an English George, 


Or sweated ducat, palmed by Jews of yore, 
Or doable Joe, or Portuguese moidore, 
And how his linger wore a ruined ring . 
Fit for the white-necked play-girl of a king. 
J Jut these tine legends, told with staring eyes, 
Met with small credence from the old and wise. 
Why tell each idle guess, each whisper vain ? 
Enough : the scorched and cindered beams remain. 
He came, a silent pilgrim to the West, 
Some old-world mystery throbbing in his breast ; 
Close to the thronging mart he dwelt alone ; 
He lived ; he died. The rest is all unknown. 

Stranger, whose eyes the shadowy isle survey, 
Afl the black steamer dashes through the bay, 
Why ask his buried secret to divine? 
He was thy brother ; speak, and tell us thine ! 


& HE Banker's dinner is the stateliest feast 
^M The town has heard of for a year, at least ; 
The sparry lustres shed their broadest 

Damask and silver catch and spread the rays; 
The florist's triumphs crown the daintier spoil 
Won from sea, the forest, or the soil; 
The steaming hot-house yields its largest pines, 
Tin- sunless vaults [inearth their oldest wines. 
With one admiring look the scene Burvey, 
And turn a moment from the bright display. 


Of all the joys of earthly pride or power. 
What gives most life, worth living, in an hour > 
When Vietory settles on the doubtful fight 
And the last f'ocman wheels in panting flight, 
No thrill like this is felt beneath the sun ; 
Life's sovereign moment is a battle won. 
But say what next ? To shape a Senate's choice, 
By the strong magic of the master's voice ; 
To ride the stormy tempest of debate 
That whirls the wavering fortunes of the state. 

Third in the list, the happy lover's prize 
Is won by honeyed words from women's eyes. 
If some would have it first instead of third, 
So let it be, — I answer not a word. 

The fourth, — sweet readers, let the thoughtless 
Have its small shrug and inoffensive laugh ; 
Let the grave quarter wear its virtuous frown, 
The stern half-quarter try to scowl us down; 
But the last eighth, the choice and sifted few, 
Will hear my words, and, pleased, confess them true. 

Among the great whom Heaven lias made to shine, 
How few have Learned the art of arts, — to dine! 
Nature, indulgent to our daily need, 
Band-hearted mother! taught as all to feed; 
But the chief art, — how rarely Nature flings 
This choicest gift among her social kings I 
Say, man of truth, has lite a brighter hour 

Than waits the chosen gnesl who knows his power ' 
He moves with ease, Itself an angel charm, — 

Lifts with light touch my lady's jewelled arm, 
Slides to his seat, half Leading and half led, 
Smiling but quiet till the grace i- -aid. 


Then gently kindles, while by slow degrees 
Creep softly out the little arts that please; 
Bright looks, the cheerful language of the eye, 
The neat, crisp question and the gay reply, — 
Talk light and airy, such as well may pass 
Between the rested fork and lifted glass ; — 
With play like this the earlier evening flics, 
Till rustling silks proclaim the ladies rise. 

His hour has come, — he looks along the chairs, 
As the Great Duke surveyed his iron squares. 

— That 's the young traveller, — is n't much to 

show, — 
Fast on the road, but at the table slow. 

— Next him. — you see the author in his look, — 
His forehead lined with wrinkles like a book, — 
Wrote the great history of the ancient Huns, — 
Holds back to fire among the heavy guns. 

— O, there 's our poet seated at his side, 
Beloved of ladies, soft, cerulean-eyed. 
Poets are prosy in their common talk, 

As the fast trotters, for the most part, walk. 

— And there 's our well-dressed gentleman, who 

By right divine, no doubt, among the wits, 
Who airs his tailor's patterns when he walks, 
The man that often speaks, but never talks. 
WUy Bhould he talk, whose presence lends a grace 
To every table where he shows his face? 
He knows the manual of the silver fork, 
Can name his claret — if lie sees the cork, — ' 
Remark that - White-top " was considered fine, 
lint swear the •• Jim.) " ifl the better wine ; — 
N not this talking < Ask Quintilian's rules ; 
[f they say No, the town has many fools. 


— Pause for a moment, — for our eyes behold 
The plain unsceptred king, the man of gold, 

The thrice illustrious threefold niillioimaire ; 
Mark his slow-creeping, dead, metallic stare ; 
His eyes, dull glimmering, like the balance-pan 

That weighs its guinea as he weighs his man. 

— AVho 's next ? An artist, in a satin tie 
Whose ample folds defeat the curious eye. 

— And there's the cousin, — must be asked, you 

know, — 
Looks like a spinster at a baby-show. 
Hope he is cool, — they set him next the door, — 
And likes his place, between the gap and bore. 

— Next comes a Congress-man, distinguished guest ! 
We don't count him, — they asked him with the real : 
And then some white cravats, with well-shaped ties, 
And heads above them which their owners prize. 

Of all that cluster round the genial board, 
Not one so radiant as the banquet's lord. 
Some say they fancy, but they know not why, 
A shade of trouble brooding in his eve. 
Nothing, perhaps, — the rooms are over-hot, — 
Vet Bee his check, — the dull-red burning spot, — 
Taste the brown .-lurry which he does not paas, — 
I la ! Thai is brandy ; see him till his glass ! 

But not forgetful of his feasting friends, 
To each in turn some lively word he sends; 
See how he throws his baited lines about, 
And plays his men as anglers play their trout. 

With the dry sticks all bonfires are begun ; 

Bring the first fagot, proser number otic! 

A question drops among the listening crew 
And hits the traveller, pat on Timbuetoo. 


We 're on the Niger, somewhere near its source, — 
Not the least hurry, take the river's course 
Through Ivissi, Foota, Kankan, Bammakoo, 
Bambarra, Sego, so to Timbuctoo, 

Thence down to Youri ; — stop him if we can, 
We can't fare worse, — wake up the Congress-man ! 
The Congress-man, once on his talking legs, 
Stirs up liis knowledge to its thickest dregs. 
Tremendous draught for dining men to quaff! 
Nothing will choke him but a purpling laugh. 
A word, — a shout,, — a mighty roar, — 't is done ; 
Extinguished; lassoed by a treacherous pun. 

A laugh is priming to the loaded soul; 
The scattering shots become a steady roll, 
.Broke by sharp cracks that run along the line, 
The light artillery of the talker's wine. 
The kindling goblets flame with golden dews, 
The hoarded flasks their tawny fire diffuse, 
And the Rhine's breast-milk gushes cold and bright, 
Pale as the moon and maddening as her light; 
With crimson juice the thirsty southern sky 
Sucks from the hills where buried armies lie, 
So that the dreamy passion it imparts 
Is drawn from heroes' bones and lovers' hearts. 

But lulls will come ; the flashing soul transmits 
Its gleams of light in alternating fits. 
Tin- shower of talk that rattled down amain 
Ends in small patterings like an April's rain ; 
The voices halt ; the game is at a stand ; 
Now for a Bolo from the master-hand! 

'T is hut a Btory, — quite a simple thing, — 
An aria touched upon a Bingle string, 
Hut every accent comes with such a grace 
The Btupid servants Listen in their place. 


Each with his waiter in his lifted hands, 
Still as a well-bred pointer when he stands. 
A query cheeks him : " Is lie quite exact \ " — 
(This from a grizzled, square-jawed man of fact.) 
The sparkling story leaves him to his fate, 
Crushed by a witness, smothered with a date, 
As a swift river, sown with many a star, 
Runs brighter, rippling on a shallow bar. 
The smooth divine suggests a graver doubt ; 
A neat quotation howls the parson out ; 
Then, sliding gayly from his own display, 
He laughs the learned dulness all away. 

So, with the merry tale and jovial song, 
The jocund evening whirls itself along, 
Till the last chorus shrieks its loud encore, 
And the white neckcloths vanish through the door. 

One savage word! — The menials know its tone, 
And slink away; the master stands alone. 
"Well played, by — "; breathe not what were best 

unheard ; 
His goblet shivers while he speaks the word, — 
" If wine tells truth, — and BO haTC said the wise, — 
It makes me laugh to think how brandy lies! 
Bankrupt to-morrow, — millionnaire to-day, — 
The farce is over, — now begins the play ! w 

The spring he touches lets a panel glide; 
An iron closet lurks beneath the slide. 
Bright with such treasures as a search might bring 
From the dec]) pockets of* a truant king. 

Two diamonds, eyeballs of a God of bronze, 
Bought from his faithful priest, a pious Borne j 

A string of brilliants ; rubies, three or tour ; 
Bags of old coin and bars of virgin ore; 


A jewelled poniard and a Turkish knife, 
Noiseless and useful if we eome to strife. 

Gone ! As a pirate flics before the wind, 
And not one tear for all he leaves behind ! 
From all the love his better years have known 
Fled like a felon, — ah ! but not alone ! 
The chariot flashes through a lantern's glare, — 
( ) the wild eyes ! the storm of sable hair ! 
Still to his side the broken heart will cling, — 
The bride of shame, the wife without the ring : 
Hark, the deep oath, — the wail of frenzied woe, — 
'. lost to hope of Heaven and peace below ! 

lie kept his secret ; but the seed of crime 
Bursts of itself in God's appointed time. 
The lives he wrecked were scattered far and wide ; 
One never blamed nor wept, — -she only died. 
None knew Ins lot, though idle tongues would say 
lie sought a lonely refuge far away, 
And there, with borrowed name and altered mien, 
II' died unheeded, as he lived unseen. 
The moral market had the usual chills 
Of Virtue suffering from protested bills ; 
The White Cravats, to friendship's memory true, 
Sighed for the past, surveyed the future too; 
Their sorrow breathed in one expressive line, — 
" Gave pleasant dinners ; who has got his wine ? " 



HAT ailed young Lucius \ Art had vain- 
ly tried 
To guess his ill, and found herself defied. 

The Augur plied his legendary skill ; 
Useless; the fair young Roman languished still. 
His chariot took him every cloudless day 
Along the Pineian Hill or Appian Way; 
They rubbed his wasted limbs with sulphurous oil, 
Oozed from the far-off Orient's heated soil ; 
They led him tottering down the steamy path 
Where bubbling fountains filled the thermal bath ; 
Borne in his litter to Egeria's cave. 
They washed him, shivering, in her icy wave. 
They sought all curious herbs and costly stones, 
They scraped the moss that grew on dead men's 

1 tones, 
They tried all cures the votive tablets taught, 
Scoured every place whence healing drugs were 

O'er Thracian hills his breathless couriers ran, 
His slaves waylaid the Syrian caravan. 

At last a Bervanl heard a stranger speak 
A new chirurgeon's name; a clever Greek, 

Skilled in bis art; from lYrgamus be came 
To Rome bat lately; (iu.i.\ was the name. 
The Greek was called: a man with piercing eye-. 
Who must be cunning, and who might be wise. 

lb- spoke but little, — if they pleased, he said, 

lb- M wait awhile beside the sullererV bed. 
So by his side he Bat, serene and calm, 
His very accents soft as healing balm; 


Not curious seemed, but every movement spied, 
llis sharp eyes searching where they seemed to 

glide ; 
Asked a few questions, — what he felt, and where ? 
" A pain just here/' " A constant beating there." 
Who ordered bathing for his aches and ails ? 
" Charmis, the water-doctor from Marseilles." 
What was the last prescription in his case ? 
" A draught of wine with powdered chry sop rase." 
Had he no secret grief he nursed alone ? 
A pause ; a little tremor ; answer, — " None." 

Thoughtful, a moment, sat the cunning leech, 
And muttered " Eros ! " in his native speech. 

In the broad atrium various friends await 
The last new utterance from the lips of fate ; 
Men, matrons, maids, they talk the question o'er, 
And, restless, pace the tessellated floor. 
Not unobserved the youth so long had pined, 
By gentle-hearted dames and damsels kind ; 
One with the rest, a rich Patrician's pride, 
The lady Hermia, called " the golden-eyed " ; 
The same the old Proconsul fain must woo, 
Whom, one dark night, a masked sicarius slew; 
The same black Crassus over roughly pressed 
To hear his suit, — the Tiber knows the rest. 
(Crassus was missed next morning by his set ; 
Next week the lishers found him in their net.) 
She with the others paced the ample hall, 
Fairest, alas! and Baddesl of them all. 

At length the Greek declared, with puzzled 
Some strange enchantment mingled in the ease, 
And naught would serve to act as counter-charm 
Save a warm bracelet from a maiden's arm. 


Not every maiden's, — many might be tried ; 
Which not in vain, experience must decide. 
Were there no damsels willing to attend 
And do such serviee for a suffering friend '. 

The message passed among the waiting crowd, 
First in a whisper, then proclaimed aloud. 
Some wore no jewels ; some were disinclined, 
For reasons better guessed at than defined ; 
Though all were saints, — at least professed to be, — 
The list all counted, there were named but three. 

The leech, still seated by the patient's side, 
Held his thin wrist, and watched him, eagle-eyed. 

Aurelia first, a fair-haired Tuscan girl, 
Slipped off her golden asp, with eyes of pearl. 
His solemn head the grave physician shook ; 
The waxen features thanked her with a look. 

Olympia next, a creature half divine, 
Sprung from the blood of old Hvander's line, 
Held her white arm, that wore a twisted chain 
Clasped with an opal-sheeny cymophane. 
In vain, () daughter! said the baffled Greek. 
The patient sighed the thanks he could not Bpeak. 

Last, Ilcrmia entered ; look, that sudden start ! 
The pallium heaves above his leaping heart; 
The beating pulse, the cheek's rekindled flame, 
Those quivering lips, the secret all proclaim. 
The deep disease long throbbing in the breast, 
The dread enchantment, all at once confessed I 
The case was plain; the treatment was begun; 
And Love M>on cured the mischief he had done. 

Young Love, too oft thy treacherous bandage Blips 
Down from the eyes it blinded to the lips! . 
Ask not tin' (Jods, () youth, for clearer sight, 
But the bold heart to plead thy cause aright. 


And thou, fair maiden, when thy lovers sigh, 
Suspect thy flattering ear, but trust thine eye, 
And learn this secret from the tale of old; 
No love so true as love that dies untold. 



OW sweet the sacred legend — if unblamed 
In my Blight verse such holy things are 

named — 
Of Mary's secret hours of hidden joy, 
Silent, but pondering on her wondrous boy! 
Ave, Maria! Pardon, if I wrong 
Those heavenly words that shame my earthly song ! 

The choral host had closed the Angel's strain 
Sung to the listening watch on Bethlehem's plain, 
And now the shepherds, hastening on their way, 
Bought the still hamlet where the Infant lay. 
They passed the fields that gleaning lluth toiled 

o'er, — 
They saw afar the ruined threshing-floor 
Where Moab's daughter, homeless and forlorn, 
Found l>oaz slumbering by his heaps of corn ; 
And some remembered how the holy scribe, 
Skilled in the lore of every jealous tribe, 
Traced the warm blood of Jesse's royal son 
To that fair alien, bravely wooed and won. 
So fared they on to seek the promised Bign 
That marked the anointed heir of David's line. 

At last, by forms of earthly semblance led, 
They found the crowded inn, the oxen's shed. 


No pomp was there, no glory shone around 
On the coarse straw that strewed the reeking ground ; 
One dim retreat a flickering torch betrayed, — 
In that poor cell the Lord of Life was laid ! 

The wondering shepherds told their breathless talc 
Of the bright choir that woke the sleeping vale; 
Told how the skies with sudden glory flamed, 
Told how the shining multitude proclaimed 
"Joy, joy to earth ! Behold the hallowed morn ! 
In David's city Christ the Lord is horn ! 
< Glory to God ! ' let angels shout on high, 
1 Good-will to men ! ' the listening earth reply ! " 

They spoke with hurried words and accents wild; 
Calm in his cradle slept the heavenly child. 
No trembling word the mother's joy revealed, — 
One sigh of rapture, and her lips were scaled ; 
rnmoved she saw the rustic train depart, 
But kept their words to ponder in her heart. 

Twelve years had passed ; the bov was fair and 
Growing in wisdom, finding grace with all. 
The maids of Nazareth, as they trooped to fill 
Their balanced urns beside the mountain rill, — 
The gathered matrons, as they sat and spun, — 
Spoke in soft words of Joseph's quiet Bon. 
No voice had reached the Galilean Mile 
Of Star-led kings, or awe-8truck shepherd's tale; 
lu the meek, studious child they only saw 
The future Rabbi, learned in Israel's law. 

So grew the hoy, and now the feast was near 
When at the Holy Place the tribes appear. 

Scarce had the honie-hred child of Nazareth seen 
Beyond the hills that girt the village green, 


Save when at midnight, o'er the starlit sands, 
Snatched from the Bteel of Herod's murdering hands, 
A babe, close folded to his mother's breast, 
Through Edom'swilds he sought the sheltering West 

Then Joseph spake : " Thy hoy hath largely 
grown ; 
Weave him fine raiment, fitting to he shown; 
Fair voltes beseem the pilgrim, as the priest: 
lie not with us to the holy feast?" 

And Mary culled the flaxen fibres white ; 
Till eve she spun; she spun till morning light. 
The thread was twined ; its parting meshes through 
From hand to hand her restless shuttle flew; 
Till the full web was wound upon the beam ; 
Love's curious toil, — a vest without a seam! 

They reach tin- Holy Place, fulfil the days 
To solemn feasting given, and grateful praise. 
At last they turn, and far Moriah's height 
Melts in the southern sky and fades from sight. 
All day the dusky caravan lias flowed 
In devious trails along the winding road; 
(K<>r many a step their homeward path attends, 
And all the Bona of Abraham are as friends.) 
Evening has come, — the hour of rest and joy, — 
Hush ! Hush ! That whisper, — " Where is Mary's 

() weary hour! O aching days that passed 
Filled with Btrange fears each wilder than the last, — 
The soldier's lance, the fierce centurion's sword, 
The crushing wheels that whirl some Roman lord, 
The midnight crypt that sucks the captive's breath, 
The blistering bud on Hinnom's vale of death ! 

Thrice on his cheek had rained the morning light; 
Thrice on his lips the mildewed kiss of night, 


Crouched by a sheltering column's shining plinth, 
Or stretched beneath the odorous terebinth. 

At last, in desperate mood, they sought once more 
The Temple's porches, searched in vain before ; 
They found him seated with the ancient men, — 
The grim old miners of the tongue and pen, — 
Their bald heads glistening as they clustered near, 
Their gray beards slanting as they turned to hear, 
Lost in half-envious wonder and surprise 
That lips so fresh should utter words so wise. 

And Mary said, — as one who, tried too long, 
Tells all her grief and half her sense of wrone. — 
"What is this thoughtless thing which thou hasl 

done ? 
Lo, we have sought thee sorrowing, O my son ! " 

Few words he spake, and scarce of filial tone, 
Strange words, their sense a mystery yet unknown ; 
Then turned with them and left the holy hill, 
To all their mild commands obedient still. 

The tale was told to Nazareth's sober men, 
And Nazareth's matrons told it oft again, 
The maids retold it at the fountain's side, 
The youthful shepherds doubted or denied; 
It passed around among the listening friends, 
With all that fancy adds and fiction lends, 
Till newer marvels dimmed the young renown 
Of Joseph's son, who talked the Kabhis down. 

But .Mary, faithful to its 1'iLilitc-st word, 
Kept in her heart the sayings she had heard. 
Till the dread morning rent the Temple's veil, 
And shuddering earth confirmed the wondrous tale. 

Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship 

A mother's secret hope outlives them all. 



HO of all statesmen is his country's 
Her councils' prompter and her leaders' 
guide ? 

He Bpeaks ; the nation holds its breath to hear ; 
He nods, and shakes the sunset hemisphere. 
Born where the primal fount of Nature springs 
By the rude cradles of her throneless kings, 
In his proud eye her royal signet flames, 
By his own lips her Monarch she proclaims. 

Why name his countless triumphs, whom to meet 
Is to be famous, envied in defeat ? 
The keen debaters, trained to brawls and strife, 
AVI 10 fire one shot, and hnish with the knife, 
Tried him but once, and, cowering in their shame, 
Ground their hacked blades to strike at meaner game. 
The lordly chief, his party's central stay, 
Whose lightest word a hundred votes obey, 
Found a new listener seated at his side, 
Looked in his eye, and felt himself defied, 
Flung his rash gauntlet on the startled floor, 
Met the all-conquering, fought — and ruled no more. 

See where he moves, what eager crowds attend ! 
What Bhouts of thronging multitudes ascend! 
If this is life, — to mark with every hour 
The purple deepening in his robes of power, 
T<> Bee the painted fruits of honor fall 
Thick at his feet, and choose among them all, 
To hear the Bounds that shape his spreading name 
Peal through the myriad organ-Stops of fame, 


Stamp the lone isle that spots the seaman's chart, 
And crown the pillared glory of the mart, 
To count as peers the few supremely wise 
Who mark their planet in the angels' eyes, — 
If this is life — 

What savage man is he 
Who strides alone beside the sounding sea ? 
Alone he wanders by the murmuring shore, 
His thoughts as restless as the waves that roar ; 
Looks on the sullen sky as stormy-browed 
As on the waves yon tempest-brooding cloud, 
Heaves from his aching breast a wailing sigh, 
Sad as the gust that sweeps the clouded sky. 

Ask him his griefs ; what midnight demons plough 
The lines of torture on his lofty brow ; 
Unlock those marble lips, and bid them speak 
The mystery freezing in his bloodless cheek. 

His secret? Hid beneath a flimsy word; 
One foolish whisper that ambition heard ; 
And thus it spake : " Behold yon gilded chair, 
The world 's one vacant throne, — thy place 18 
there ! " 

Ah, fatal dream ! What warning spectres meet 
In ghastly circle round its shadowy seat ! 
Yet still the Tempter murmurs in his ear 
The maddening taunt he cannot choose but hear: 
" Meanest of slaves, by Gods and men accurst, 
He who is second when he might be first I 
(Mind) with bold front the ladder's topmost round, 
Or chain thy creeping footsteps to the ground I " 

Illustrious Dupe ! Have those majestic eyes 

Lost their proud lire for Midi a vulvar prize ' 
Art thou the Last of all mankind to know 
That party-fightfl are won by aiming low ! 


Thou, stamped by Nature with her royal sign, 
That party-hirelings hate a look like thine \ 
Shake from thy sense the wild delusive dream ! 
Without the purple, art thou not supreme? 
And Boothed by lore unbought, thy heart shall own 
A nation's homage nobler than its throne ! 


"grfpTfjgg! S man's the only throbbing heart that hides 
§§ f^QH The silent spring that feeds its whispering 

\&£*£>j&\ Speak from thy caverns, mystery-breed- 
ing Earth, 
Tell the half-hinted story of thy birth, 
And calm the noisy champions who have thrown 
The book of types against the book of stone ! 

Have ye not secrets, ye refulgent spheres, 
No >leepless listener of the starlight hears \ 
In vain the sweeping equatorial pries 
Through every World-sown corner of the skies, 
To the far orb that so remotely strays 
Our midnight darkness is its noonday blaze ; 
In vain the climbing soul of creeping man 
Metes out the heavenly concave with a span, 
Tracks into space the long-lost meteor's trail, 
And weighs an unseen planet in the scale ; 
Still o'er their doubts the wan-eved watchers siffh, 
And Science lifts her still unanswered wy ; 
" Are all these worlds, that speed their circling flight, 
Dumb, vacant, soulless, — bawbles of the night ! 


Warmed with God's smile and wafted by his breath, 
To weave in ceaseless round the dance of Death ? 
Or rolls a sphere in each expanding zone, 
Crowned with a life as varied as our own % " 

Maker of earth and stars ! If thou hast taught 
By what thy voice hath spoke, thy hand hath wrought, 
By all that Science proves, or guesses true, 
More than thy Poet dreamed, thy prophet knew, — 
The heavens still how in darkness at thy feet, 
And shadows veil thy cloud-pavilioned seat ! 

Not for ourselves we ask thee to reveal 
One awful word beneath the future's seal ; 
What thou shalt tell us, grant us strength to bear ; 
What thou withholdest is thy single care. 
Not for ourselves ; the present clings too fast, 
Moored to the mighty anchors of the past ; 
But when, with angry snap, some cable parts, 
The sound re-echoing in our startled hearts, — 
When, through the wall that clasps the harbor 

And shuts the raving ocean from its bound, 
Shattered and rent by sacrilegious hands, 
The iirst mad billow leaps upon the Bands, — 
Then to the Future's awful page we turn, 
And what we question hardly dare to learn. 

Still let us hope ! for while we seem to tread 
The time-worn pathway of the nations dead, 
Though Sparta laughs at all our warlike deeds, 

And buried Athens claims our stolen creeds, 
Though Koine, a spectre on her broken throne, 
Beholds our eagle and recalls her own, 

Though England fling her pennons on the breeze 

And reign before us Mistress of the seas, — 


While calm-eyed History tracks us circling round 

Fair's iron pillar where they all were bound, 

She sees new beacons crowned with brighter flame 

Than the old watch-fires, like, but not the same ! 

Still in our path a larger curve she finds, 

The spiral widening as the chain unwinds ! 

No -hameless haste shall spot with bandit-crime 

Our destined empire snatched before its time. 

Wait, — wait, undoubting, for the winds have caught 

From our bold speech the heritage of thought ; 

No marble form that sculptured truth can wear 

Vies with the image shaped in viewless air ; 

And thought unfettered grows through speech to 

As the broad forest marches in its seeds. 
What though we perish ere the day is won? 
Enough to see its glorious work begun ! 
The thistle falls before a trampling clown, 
But who can chain the flying thistle-down ? 
Wait while the fiery seeds of freedom fly, 
Tin- prairie blazes when the grass is dry ! 

What arms might ravish, leave to peaceful arts, 
Wisdom and love shall win the roughest hearts; 
So shall the angel who lias closed for man 
The blissful garden since his woes began 
Swing wide the golden portals of the West, 
And Eden's secret stand at length confessed! 




ggEAR GOVERNOR, if my skiff might 
The winds that lift the ocean wave, 
The mountain stream that loops and 

Through my broad meadow's channelled curves 

Should waft me on from bound to bound 
To where the River weds the Sound, 
The Sound should give me to the Sea, 
That to the Bay, the Bay to Thee. 

It may not be ; too long the track 

To follow down or struggle back. 

The sun has set on fair Naushon 

Long ere my western blaze is gone; 

The ocean disk is rolling dark 

In shadows round your swinging bark, 

While yet the yellow snnset tills 

The stream that scarfs my Bpruce-clad bills; 

The day-star wakes your island deer 

Long ere my barn-yard chanticleer; 

Four mists are soaring in the blue 

While mine are Bparkfl of -littering dew. 

It may not be ; would it might, 
Could I live o'er thai glowing night ! 

What golden hours would come t<> life, 

What goodly feats of peaceful Btrife,— 
Such jests, that, drained of everj joke. 

The very bank of language broke, — 


Such deeds, that Laughter nearly died 

With Btitchea in liis belted side; 

While Time, caught fast in pleasure's chain, 

His double goblet snapped in twain, 

And stood with half in either hand, — 

Both brimming full, — but not of sand ! 

It may not be ; I strive in vain 

To break my slender household chain, — 

Three pairs of little clasping hands, 

One voice, that whispers, not commands. 

Even while my spirit flies away, 

My gentle jailers murmur nay; 

All shapes of elemental wrath 

They raise along my threatened path ; 

The storm grows black, the waters rise, 

The mountains mingle with the skies, 

The mad tornado scoops the ground, 

The midnight robber prowls around, — 

Thus, kissing every limb they tie, 

They draw a knot and heave a sigh, 

Till, fairly netted in the toil, 

My feet are rooted to the soil. 

( )nly the soaring wish is free ! — 

And that, dear Governor, flies to thee ! 

PlTTSFIELD, 1 85 1. 



HE seed that wasteful autumn cast 
To waver on its stormy blast. 
Long o'er the wintry desert tost, 
Its living germ has never lost. 
Dropped by the weary tempest's wing, 
It feels the kindling ray of spring, 
And, starting from its dream of death, 
Pours on the air its perfumed breath. 

So, parted by the rolling flood, 

The love that springs from common blood 

Needs but a single sunlit hour 

Of min-ling smiles to bud and flower; 

Unharmed its slumbering life lias flown, 

From shore to shore, from zone to zone, 

AVhere summer's falling roses stain 

The tepid waves of Pontchartrain, 

Or where the lichen creeps below 

Katahdin's wreaths of whirling snow. 

Though fiery sun and stiffening eold 
May change the lair ancestral mould, 

No winter chills, no BUmmer drains 
The life-blood drawn from English veins, 
Still bearing wheroorVr it Mows 
The love that with its fountain rose, 
Unchanged by space, onwronged by time. 
From age to age, from clime to clinic! 





ME, spread your wings, as I spread mine, 

And leave the crowded hall 
For where the eyes of twilight shine 
O'er evening's western wall. 

These arc the pleasant Berkshire hills, 

Each with its leafy crown ; 
Hark ! from their sides a thousand rills 

Come singing sweetly down. 

A thousands rills ; they leap and shine, 
Strained through the shadowy nooks, 

Till, clasped in many a gathering twine, 
They swell a hundred brooks. 

A hundred brooks, and still they run 

With ripple, shade, and gleam, 
Till, clustering all their braids in one, 

They flow a single stream. 

A bracelet spun from mountain mist, 

A silvery sash unwound, 
With ox-bow curve and sinuous twist 

It writhes to reach the Sound. 

This is my bark, — a pygmy's ship; 

Beneath a child it rolls ; 
Fear not, — one body makes it dip, 

But not a thousand souls. 


Float we the grassy batiks between; 

Without an oar aw glide ; 
The meadows, drest in living green, 

L'nrull on cither side. 

— Come, take the book we love so well, 

And let ns read and dream 
We see whatever its pages tell, 

And sail an English stream. 

Up to the clouds the lark lias sprung, 

Still trilling as he flies : 
The linnet sings as there he sung ; 

The unseen cuckoo cries, 

And daisies strew the banks along, 
And yellow kingcups shine, 

With cowslips, and a primrose throng, 
And humble celandine. 

Ah foolish dream ! when Nature Dursed 

Her daughter in the West, 
The fount was drained that opened first ; 

She bared her other breast 

On the young planet's orient shore 
Her morning hand Bhe tried ; 

Then turned the broad medallion o'er 
And stamped the BUUSet Bide. 

Take what she gives, her pine's tall Btem, 

1 [er elm with hanging spray ; 
She wears her mountain diadem 

Still in her own proud waj , 


Look on the forests' ancient kings, 

The hemlock's towering pride : 
Yon trunk had thrice a hundred rings, 

And fell before it died. 

Nor think that Nature saves her bloom 

And slights our grassy plain ; 
For us she wears her court costume, — 

Look on its broidered train ; 

The lily with the sprinkled dots, 

Brands of the noontide beam; 
The cardinal, and the blood-red spots, 

Its double in the stream, 

As if some wounded eagle's breast, 

Slow throbbing o'er the plain, 
Had left its airy path impressed 

In drops of scarlet rain. 

And hark ! and hark ! the woodland rings ; 

There thrilled the thrush's soul ; 
And look i that flash of flamy wings, — 

The tire-plumed oriole ! 

Above, the hen-hawk swims and swoops, 
Flung from the bright, blue sky; 

Below, the robin hops, and whoops 
His piercing, Indian cry. 

Beauty runs virgin in the woods 
Robed in her rustic green, 

And oft a longing thought intrudes, 
As if we might have seen 


Her every finger's every joint 
Ringed with some golden line, 

Poet whom Nature did anoint ! 
Had our wild home been thine. 

Yet think not so ; Old England's blood 
Buns warm in English veins; 

But wafted o'er the icy flood 
Its better life remains : 

Our children know each wild-wood smell, 

The bayberry and the fern, 
The man who does not know them well 

Is all too old to learn. 

Be patient ! On the breathing page 
Still pants our hurried past ; 

Pilgrim and soldier, saint and sage, — 
The poet comes the last ! 

Though still the lark-voiced matins ring 
The world has known bo long; 

The wood-thrush of the West shall sing 
Earth's last sweet even-song ! 


BINE Boft, ye trembling tears of light 
That Btrew the mourning skies ; 

Hushed in the silent dews of night 

The harp of Erin lies. 


What though her thousand years have past 

Of poets, saints, and kings, — 
Her echoes only hear the last 

That swept those golden strings. 

Fling o'er his mound, ye star-lit bowers, 

The balmiest wreaths ye wear, 
Whose breath lias lent your earth-horn flowers 

Heaven's own ambrosial air. 

Breathe, bird of night, thy softest tone, 

By shadowy grove and rill; 
Thy soul: will soothe us Avhile we own 

That his was sweeter still. 

Stay, pitying Time, thy foot for him 

Who gave thee swifter wings, 
Nor let thine envious shadow dim 

The light his glory flings. 

If in his ehcek unholy hlood 

Burned for one youthful hour, 
'T was but the flushing of the bud 

That hlooms a milk-white flower. 

Take him, kind mother, to thy breast, 

Who Loved thy smiles so well, 
And spread thy mantle o'er hifl resl 

Of rose and asphodel. 

— The hark ha- sailed the midnight sea, 

The Bea without a Bhore, 
That waved its parting sign to thee, — 

" A health to thee, Tom Moure I " 


And thine, long lingering on the Btrand, 

Its bright-hued streamers furled, 
Was Loosed by age, with trembling hand, 

To seek the silent world. 

Not silent ! no, the radiant Stan 

Still singing as they shine, 
Unheard through earth's imprisoning bars, 

Have voices sweet as thine. 

Wake, then, in happier realms above, 

The songs of bygone years, 
Till angels learn those airs of love 

That ravished mortal ears ! 


" Purpuroos Bpargam ll<>ro.' 

jlHE wreath that Btar-erowned Shelley 
lying oo thy Roman grave, 

• d on Its turf Noun- April sets 

Her Btore of Blender violets ; 
Though all th«- Gods their garlands Bhower, 
I too may bring one purple flower. 
— Alas! whal blossom shall I bring, 
That opens in my Northern spring ! 
Tin- garden beds have all run wild, 
So trim when 1 was yel a child ; 
Flat plantains and unseemly Btalks 
Have crept across the gravel walks ; 


The vines are dead, long, long ago, 
The almond buds no longer blow. 

No more upon its mound I see 
The azure, plume-bound fleur-de-lis ; 
Where once the tulips used to show, 
In Btraggling tufts the pansies grow; 
The grass has quenched my white-rayed gem, 
The flowering " Star of Bethlehem/' 
Though its long blade of glossy green 
And pallid stripe may still be seen. 
Nature, who treads her nobles down, 
And gives their birthright to the clown, 
I I.i- sown her base-born weedy things 
Above the garden's queens and kings. 

— Yet one sweet flower of ancient race 
Springs in the old familiar place. 
When snows were melting down the vale, 
Ami Earth unlaced her icy mail, 

And March his stormy trumpet blew, 
And tender green came peeping through, 
I loved the earliest one to seek 
That broke the soil with emerald beak, 
And watch the trembling bells so blue 
Spread on the column as it grew. 
Meek child of earth! thou wilt not shame 
The Bweet, dead poet's holy name; 
The God of music gave thee birth, 
Called from the crimson-spotted earth, 
Wnere, Bobbing his young life away, 
Hi- own fair llyacinthus lav. 

— The hyacinth my garden gave 
Shall lie upon that Roman grave! 




XE broad, white sail in Spezzia's treacher- 
ous hay ; 
On comes the hlast ; too daring hark, 
beware ! 

The cloud lias clasped her; lo ! it melts away; 
The wide, waste waters, hut no sail is there. 

Morning : a woman looking on the sea ; 

Midnight: With lamps the Long verandah hums; 
Come, wandering sail, they watch, they burn f< >r thee ! 

Suns come and go, alas ! no hark returns. 

And feet are thronging on the pebbly sands, 
And torches flaring in the weedy cavi 

Where'er the waters lay with icy hands 
The shapes uplifted from their coral graves. 

Vainly they seek ; the idle quest is o'er ; 

The coarse, dark women, with their hanging locks, 

And lean, wild children gather from the shore 

To the black hovels bedded in the rocks. 

But Love still prayed, with agonizing wail, 

"One, <>ne Last look, ye heaving waters, yield!" 

Till Ocean, clashing in his jointed mail, 

Raised the pale burden on his level shield. 

Slow from the shore the Milieu waves retire j 

His form a nobler element Bhall claim; 

Nature baptized him in ethereal lire, 

And Death shall crown him with a wreath of 



Fade, mortal semblance, never to return; 

Swift is the change within thy crimson shroud; 
Seal the white ashes in the peaceful urn ; 

All else has risen in yon silvery cloud. 

Sleep where thy gentle Adonais lies, 

Whose open page lay on thy dying heart, 

Both in the smile of those blue-vaulted skies, 
Earth's fairest dome of all divinest art. 

Breathe for his wandering soul one passing Bigh, 
( ) happier Christian, while thine eye grows dim, — 

In all the mansions of the house on high, 
Say not that Mercy has not one for him ! 


^S the voice of the watch to the mariner's 
dream ; 
As the footstep of Spring on the ice- 
girdled stream, 
There comes a soft footstep, a whisper, to me, — 
The vision is over, — the rivulet free ! 

We have trod from the threshold of turbulent March, 
Till the green scarf of April is hung on the larch, 

And down the blight hillside that welcomes the day, 
We hear the warm panting of beautiful May. 

We will part before Summer has opened her wing, 
And the bosom of June swells the bodice of Spring, 

While the hope of the BeasOD lies fresh in the hud, 
And the young life of Nature runs warm in our Mood. 


It is but a word, and the chain is unbound, 
The bracelet of steel drops unclasped to the ground ; 
No hand shall replace it, — it rests where it fell, — 
It is but one word that we all know too well. 

Yet the hawk with the wildness untamed in his eye, 
If you free him, stares round ere he springs to the 

The slave whom no longer his fetters restrain 
"Will turn for a moment and look at Ins chain. 

Our parting is not as the friendship of years, 
That chokes with the blessing it speaks through its 

tears ; 
We harp walked in a garden, and, looking around. 
Have plucked a few leaves from the myrtles we 


But now at the gate of the garden we stand, 
And the moment lias come for unclasping the hand ; 
Will you drop it like lead, and in silence retreat 
Like the twenty crushed forms from an omnibus 

Nay! hold it one moment, — the last we may 

share, — 
I stretch it in kindness, and not for my Bare : 
You may pass through the doorw ay in rank or in file, 
If your ticket from Nature is stamped with a Bmile. 

For the Bweetesl of smiles is the smile as we part, 
When the light round the lips is a ray from the 

heart ; 
And leal a stray tear from its fountain might swell, 
We will seal thebrighl spring with a quiet farewell. 




WAS a vision of childhood that came 

with its dawn, 
Ere the curtain that covered life's day- 
star was drawn ; 
The nurse told the tale when the shadows grew long, 
And the mother's soft lullaby breathed it in song. 

"There flows a fair stream by the hills of the 

west," — 
She sang to her boy as lie lay on her breast ; 
"Along its smooth margin thy fathers have played; 
Beside its deep waters their ashes are laid." 

I wandered afar from the land of my birth, 
I Baw the old rivers, renowned upon earth, 
But fancy still painted that wide-flowing stream 
With the many-hued pencil of infancy's dream. 

I saw the green banks of the castle-crowned Rhine, 
Where the grapes drink the moonlight and change 

it to wine; 
I stood by the Avon, whose waves as they glide 
Still whisper his glory who sleeps at their side. 

But my heart would still yearn for the sound of 
the wines 

That sing as they How by my forefathers 1 graves ; 

If manhood yet honors my cheek with a tear, 
I rare not wh<> Bees it, — no blush lor it here! 

278 A POEM. 

Farewell to the deep-bosomed stream of the Wes1 ! 
I fling this loose blossom to float on its breast ; 
Nor let the dear love of its children grow cold, 
Till the channel is dry where its waters have rolled I 

December, 1854. 



Mat 5, 1853. 

HOLD a letter in my hand, — 

A flattering letter — more 's the pity, — 
By some contriving junto planned, 
And signed per order of Committer ; 
It touches every tenderest Bpot, — 

My patriotic predilections, 
My well known — something — don't ask what, 
My poor old songs, my kind affections. 

They make a feast on Thursday next. 
And hope to make the feasters merry : 

They own they're something more perplexed 
For poets than for port and sherry ; — 

They want the men of — (word torn out) ; 
Our friends will conic with anxious laces 

(To see our blankets off, no doubt, 

And trot US out ami Bhow our paces). 



They hint that papers by the score 

Are rather musty kind of rations; 
They don't exactly mean a bore, 

But only trying to the patience; 
That Buch as — you know who I mean — 

Distinguished for their — what d' ye call 'em — 
Should bring the dews of Hippocrene 

To sprinkle on the faces solemn. 

— The same old story ; that 's the chaff 

To catch the birds that sing the ditties ; 
Upon my soul, it makes me laugh 

To read these letters from Committees ! 
They 're all so loving and so fair, — 

All for your sake such kind compunction, — 
'T would save your carriage half its wear 

To touch its wheels with such an unction ! 

Why, who am I, to lift me here 

And beg such learned folk to listen, — 
To ask a smile, or coax a tear 

Beneath these stoic lids to glisten? 
As well might some arterial thread 

Ask the whole frame to feel it gushing, 
While throbbing fierce from heel to head 

The vast aortic tide was rushing. 

As well some hair-like nerve might strain 

To set its special streamlet going, 
While through the myriad-channelled brain 

The burning flood of thought was flowing; 
Or trembling fibre strive t<> keep 

The springing haunches gathered shorter, 
While the Bcourged racer, leap on leap, 

Was stretching through the last hot quarter! 

2 8o A POEM. 

Ah me ! you take the bud that eame 

Self-sown in your poor garden's borders, 
And hand it to the stately dame 

That florists breed for, all she orders ; 
She thanks you — it was kindly meant — 

(A pale affair, not worth th< keeping,) — 
Good morning ; — and your bud is sent 

To join the tea-leaves used for sweeping. 

Not always so, kind hearts and true, — 

For such I know are round me beating ; 
Is not the bud I offer you, — 

Fresh gathered for the hour of meeting, — 
Pale though its outer leaves may be, 

Rose-red in all its inner petals, 
Where the warm life we cannot see — 

The life of love that gave it — settles ? 

We meet from regions far away, 

Like rills from distant mountains streaming ; 
The sun is on Francisco's bay, 

O'er Chesapeake flic lighthouse gleaming; 
While summer girds the still bayou 

In chains of bloom, her bridal token, 
Monadnock sees the Bky grow blue, 

His crystal bracelet yet unbroken. 

Yet Nature bears the self-same heart 
Beneath her russet-mantled bosom, 

A- where with burning lips apart 

She breathes, and white magnolias blossom : 

The seli-same founts her chalice till 

With showery Bunlight running over, 
( >n lit ry plain and frozen hill, 

( )n myrtle-beds and fields of clover 


I give you Home I its crossing lines 

United in one golden suture, 
And showing every day that shines 

The present growing to the future, — 
A flag that hears a hundred stars, 

In one bright ring, witlr love for centre, 
Fenced round with white and crimson bars, 

No prowling treason dares to enter ! 

O brothers, home may be a word 

To make affection's living treasure — 
The wave an angel might have stirred — 

A stagnant pool of selfish pleasure ; 
Home ! It is where the day-star springs 

And where the evening sun reposes, 
Where'er the eagle spreads his wings, 

From northern pines to southern roses ! 



Sept. 13, 1854. 

CARCE could the parting ocean close, 
Seamed by the Mayflower's cleaving 


When o'er the ragged desert rose 
The waves that tracked the Pilgrim's plough. 


Then sprang from many a rock-strewn field 
The rippling grass, the nodding grain, 

Such growths as English meadows yield 
To scanty sun and frequent rain. 

But when the fiery days were done, 
And Autumn brought his purple haze, 

Then, kindling in the slanted sun, 

The hill-sides gleamed with golden maize. 

The food was scant, the fruits were few : 
A red-streak glistening here and there ; 

Perchance in statelier precincts grew 
Some stern old Puritanic pear. 

Austere in taste, and tough at core, 

Its unrelenting hulk was shed, 
To ripen in the Pilgrim's store 

When all the summer sweets were fled. 

Such was his lot, to front the storm 
"With iron heart and marble brow, 

Nor ripen till his earthly form 

Was cast from life's autumnal bough. 

— But ever on the bleakest rock 
We bid the brightest beacon glow, 

And still upon the thorniest stock 
The sweetest roses love to blow. 

So on our rude and wintry soil 
We feed the kindling flame of art. 

And Bteal the tropic's blushing Bpoil 
To bloom on Nature's ice-clad heart. 


how the Boftening Mother's breast 
Warms to her children's patient wiles, — 
Her lips by loving Labor pressed 

Break in a thousand dimpling smiles, 

From when the flushing hud of June 

Dawns with its first auroral hue, 
Till shines the rounded harvest-moon, 

And velvet dahlias drink the dew. 

Nor these the only gifts she brings ; 

Look where the laboring orchard groans, 
And yields its beryl-threaded strings 

For chestnut burs and hemlock cones. 

Dear though the shadowy maple be, 
And dearer still the whispering pine, 

Dearest yon russet-laden tree 

Browned by the heavy rubbing kinc ! 

There childhood flung its rustling stone, 

There venturous boyhood learned to climb, — 

How well the early graft was known 
Whose fruit was ripe ere harvest-time ! 

Xor be the Fleming's pride forgot, 

With swinging drops and drooping bells, 

Freckled and Bplashed with streak and spot, 
On the warm-breasted, sloping swells ; 

Nor Persia's painted garden-queen, — 
Frail Houri of the treUised wall, — 

Her deep-clef) bosom scarfed with green, — 
Fairest t<> see, and first to fall. 


— When man provoked his mortal doom, 
And Eden trembled as he fell, 

When blossoms sighed their last perfume. 
And branches waved their long farewell, 

One sucker crept beneath the gate, 
One seed was wafted o'er the wall, 

One bough sustained his trembling weight ; 
These left the garden, — these were all. 

And far o'er many a distant zone 

These wrecks of Eden still are flung : 

The fruits that Paradise hath known 
Are still in earthly gardens hung. 

Yes, by our own unstoricd stream 
The pink-white apple-blossoms burst 

That saw the young Euphrates gleam, — 
That Gihon's circling waters nursed. 

For us the ambrosial pear displays 
The wealth its arching branches hold, 

Bathed by a hundred summery days 
In Hoods of mingling fire and gold. 

And here, where beauty's cheek of flame 

With morning's earliest beam is fed, 
The sunset-painted peach may claim 
To rival its celestial red. 

— What though in some uinnoistened vale 

The summer Leaf grow brown and Bere, 

Sa\ . .-hall our star of promise lad 

That circles half the rolling sphere. 


From beaches salt with bitter spray, 
< >Yr prairies green with softest rain, 

And ridges bright with evening's ray, 
To rocks that shade the stormless main ? 

If by our slender-threaded streams 
The blade and leaf and blossom die, 

If, drained by noontide's parching beams, 
The milky veins of Nature dry, 

See, with her swelling bosom bare, 
Yon wild-eyed Sister in the West, — 

The ring of Empire round her hair, 
The Indian's wampum on her breast ! 

We saw the August sun descend, 
Day after day, with blood-red stain, 

And the blue mountains dimly blend 

With smoke-wreaths from the burning plain; 

Beneath the hot Sirocco's wings 

We sat and told the withering hours, 

Till Heaven unsealed its hoarded springs, 
And bade them leap in flashing showers. 

Yet in our Ishmael's thirst we knew 
The mercy of the Sovereign hand 

Would pour the fountain's quickening dew 
To feed some harvest of the land. 

No flaming swords of wrath surround 
Our second Garden of the Blest; 

It spreads beyond its rocky bound, 
It climbs Nevada's glittering crest. 


God keep the tempter from its gate ! 

God shield the children, lest they fall 
From their stern fathers' free estate, — 

Till Ocean is its only wall ! 


TRIPLE health to Friendship, Science, 

From heads and hands that own a com- 
mon heart ! 
Each in its turn the others' willing slave, — 
Each in its season Btroner to heal and save. 

Friendship's blind service, in the hour of need, 
Wipes the pale face — and lets the victim bleed. 
Science must stop to reason and explain ; 
Art claps his finger on the streaming vein. 

But Art's brief memory fails the hand at last : 
Then Science lifts the flambeau of the past. 
When both their equal impotence deplore, — 
When Learning Bighs, and Skill can do no more,- 
The tear of Friendship poms its heavenly halm, 
And soothes the pang no anodyne may calm ! 

May i, 1855. 



NEW YORK, DEC. 22, 1 8 55, 

EW England, we love thee ; no time can 

From the hearts of thy ehildren the smile 
on thy lace. 

'T is the mother's fond look of affection and pride, 
As she gives her fair son to the arms of his bride'. 

His bride may be fresher in beauty's young flower ; 
She may blaze in the jewels she brings with her 

But passion must chill in Time's pitiless blast ; 
The one that first loved us will love to the last. 

You have left the dear land of the lake and the 

But its winds and irs waters will talk with you still. 
" Forget not," they whisper, " your love is onr 

And cclio breathes softly, "We never forget." 

The banquet's L r ay splendors are gleaming around, 
But your hearts have flown back o'er the waves of 

the Sound ; 
They have found the brown home where their pulses 

were born ; 
They are throbbing their way through the trees and 

the eorn. 


There arc roofs you remember, — their glory is fled : 
There are mounds in the church-yard, — one sigh 

for the dead. 
There arc wrecks, there arc ruins, all scattered 

around ; 
But Earth has no spot like that corner of ground. 

Come, let us be cheerful, — remember last night, 
How they cheered us, and — never mind — meant 

it all right; 
To-night, we harm nothing, — we love in the lump ; 
Here 's a bumper to Maine, in the juice of the 

pump ! 

Here *s to all the good people, wherever they be, 
Who have grown in the shade of the liberty-tree ; 
We all love its leaves, and its blossoms and fruit, 
But pray have a care of the fence round its root. 

We should like to talk big ; it 's a kind of a right, 
When the tongue has got loose and the waistband 

grown tight ; 
But, as pretty Miss Prudence remarked to her beau, 
On its own heap of compost, no biddy should crow. 

Enough! There arc gentlemen waiting to talk, 
Whose words arc to mine as the flower to the stalk. 
Stand by your old mother whatever befall; 

God bless all her children ! Good night to you all ! 




February 2.2, 1856. 

ELCOME to the day returning, 
Dearer still as ages flow, 
£TA\M While the torch of Faitli is burning, 
q ^viidi Long as Freedom's altars glow ! 
See the hero whom it gave us 

Slumbering on a mother's breast ; 
For the arm he stretched to save us, 
Be its morn forever blest ! 

Hear the tale of youthful glory, 

While of Britain's rescued band 
Friend and foe repeat the story, 

Spread his fame o'er sea and land, 
Where the red cross, proudly streaming, 

Flaps above the frigate's deck, 
Where the golden lilies, gleaming, 

Star the watch-towers of Quebec. 

Look ! The shadow on the dial 
M irks the hour of deadlier strife; 

I >ays of terror, years of trial, 
S urge a nation into life. 

Do, the youth, become her leader! 

All her hatlled tyrants yield ; 
Through his arm the Lord hath freed her; 
Crown him on the tented field ! 


Vain is Empire's mad temptation ! 

Not for him an earthly crown ! 
He whose sword hath freed a nation ! 

Strikes the offered sceptre down. 
See the throneless Conqueror seated, 

Ruler by a people's choice ; 
See the Patriot's task completed ; 

Hear the Father's dying voice ! 

" By the name that you inherit, 

By the sufferings you recall, 
Cherish the fraternal spirit ; 

Love your country first of all ! 
Listen not to idle questions 

If its bands may be untied ; 
Doubt the patriot whose suggestions 

Strive a nation to divide ! " 

Father ! We, whose ears have tingled 

With the discord-notes of shame, — 
We, whose sires their blood have mingled 

In the battle's thunder-flame, — 
Gathering, while this holy morning 

Lights the land from sea to sea, 
Hear thy counsel, heed thy warning ; 

Trust us, while we honor thee ! 

CLASS OF '29. 291 

CLASS OF '29. 


OU 'LL believe me, dear boys, 'tis a 
pleasure to rise 
With a welcome like this in your darling 
old eyes, 

To meet the same smiles and to hear the same tone 
Which have greeted me oft in the years that have 

Were T gray as the grayest old rat in the wall, 
My locks would turn brown at the sight of you all ; 
If my heart were as dry as the shell on the sand, 
It would iill like the goblet I hold in my hand. 

There are noontides of autumn, when summer re- 

Though the leaves are all garnered and sealed in 
their urns, 

And the bird on his perch that was silent so long 

Believes the sweet sunshine and breaks into song. 

We have caged the young birds of our beautiful June : 
Their plumes arc still bright and their voices in tune ; 
One moment of sunshine from faces like these, 
And they sing as they sung in the green-growing trees. 

The voices of morning ! How sweet is their thrill 
When the shadows have turned, and the evening 

grows still ! 
The text of our lives may net wiser with age, 
But the print was so fair on its twentieth page! 


Look off from your goblet and up from your plate, 
Come, take the last journal and glance at its date, — 
Then think what we fellows should say and should do, 
If the 6 were a 9, and the 5 were a 2. 

All no ! For the shapes that would meet with us 

From the far land of shadows are ever too dear ! 
Though youth flung around us its pride and its 

We should see but the comrades we clasped in our 


A health to our future, — a sigh for our past ! 
"We love, we remember, we hope to the last : 
And for all the base lies that the almanacs hold, 
While we 'vc youth in our hearts, we can never 
grow old. 



HE mountains glitter in the snow 

A thousand leagues asunder; 
Yet here, amid the banquet's glow, 
I hear their voice of thunder ; 
Each giant's ice-bound goblet clink- ; 

A flowing stream is summoned ; 
Wachusett to lien Nevis drinks; 

Monadnoek to Hen Lomond ! 


Though years hare clipped the eagle's plume 
That crowned the chieftain's bonnet, 

The Bun still sees the heather bloom, 
The silver mists lie on it ; 

With tartan kilt and philibcg, 

What stride was ever bolder 
Than his who showed the naked leg 

Beneath the plaided shoulder % 

The echoes sleep on Cheviot's hills, 

That heard the bogles blowing 
When down their sides the crimson rills 

With mingled blood were flowing ; 
The hunts where gallant hearts were game, 

The slashing on the border, 
The raid that swooped with sword and flame, 

Give place to " law and order/' 

Not while the rocking steeples reel 

With midnight tocsins ringing, 
Not while the crashing war-notes peal, 

God sets his poets singing ; 
The bird is silent in the night, 

Or shrieks a cry of warning 
While fluttering round the beacon-light, — 

But hear him greet the morning ! 

The lark of Scotia's morning sky ! 

Whose voire may sing his prai 
With Heaven's own sunlight in his eye, 

1 1 walked among the dai 
Till through the cloud of fortune's wrong 

He .-oared to fields of glory ; 
But left his land her Bweetesl Bong 

And earth her saddest storv. 

, 9 4 FOR THE BURN8 

'T is not the forts the builder piles 

That chain the earth together ; 
The wedded crowns, the sister isles, 

Would laugh at such a tether ; 
The kindling thought, the throbbing words, 

That set the pulses heating, 
, Are stronger than the myriad swords 

Of mighty armies meeting. 

Thus while within the banquet glows, 

Without, the wild winds whistle, 
We drink a triple health, — the Rose, 

The Shamrock, and the Thistle ! 
Their blended hues shall never fade 

Till War has hushed his cannon, — 
Close-twined as ocean-currents braid 

The Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon ! 


January 25, 1859. 

IS birthday. — Nay, we need not speak 
The name each heart is beating, — 
Each glistening eye and flashing duck 
In light and flame repeating ! 

We come in one tumultuous tide, — 

( )nc BUTge of wild emotion, — 
As crowding through the Frith of Clyde 

Rolls in the Western Ocean : 


As when yon cloudless, quartered moon 

Bangs o'er each storied river, 
The swelling breasts of Ayr and Doon 

With sea-green wavelets quiver. 

The century shrivels like a scroll, — 

The past becomes the present, — 
And face to face, and soul to soul, 

We greet the monarch-peasant. 

While Shenstone strained in feeble flights 

With Corydon and Phillis, — 
While Wolfe was climbing Abraham's heights 

To snatch the Bourbon lilies, — 

Who heard the wailing infant's cry, 

The babe beneath the shieling, 
Whose song to-night in every sky 

Will shake earth's starry ceiling, — 

Whose passion-breathing voice ascends 

And floats like incense o'er us, 
Whose ringing lay of friendship blends 

With labor's anvil chorus 1 

We love him, not for sweetest song, 

Though never tone so tender; 
We love him, even in his wrong, — 

His wasteful self-surrender. 

We praise him, not for gifts divine, — 

His Muse was born of woman, — 
Bus manhood breathes in every line, — 

Was ever heart more human ! 


We love him, praise him, just for this : 

In every form and feature, 
Through wealth and want, through woe and bliss, 

He saw his fellow-ereature ! 

No soul could sink beneath his love, — 

Not even angel blasted ; 
No mortal power could soar above 

The pride that all outlasted ! 

Ay ! Heaven had set one living man 

Beyond the pedant's tether, — 
His virtues, frailties, He may scan, 

Who weighs them all together ! 

I fling my pebble on the cairn 

Of him, though dead, undying ; 
Sweet Nature's nursling, bonniest bairn 

Beneath her daisies lying. 

The waning suns, the wasting globe, 
Shall spare the minstrel's story, — 

The centuries weave his purple robe, 
The mountain-mist of glory ! 

January i 8, 1856. 

HEX life hath run its largest round 

Of toil and triumph, joy and woe, 
How brief a storied page is found 
To compass all its outward show ! 


The world-tried sailor tins and droops; 

IIi> flag is rent, his keel forgot; 
His farthest voyages seem but loops 

That iloat from life's entangled knot. 

But when within the narrow space 

Some larger soul hath lived and wrought, 

Whose sight was open to embrace 

The boundless realms of deed and thought, — 

When, stricken by the freezing blast, 

A nation's living pillars fall, 
How rich the storied page, how vast, 

A word, a whisper, can recall ! 

No medal lifts its fretted face, 

Nor speaking marble cheats your eye, 

Yet, while these pictured lines I trace, 
A living image passes by : 

A roof beneath the mountain pines ; 

The cloisters of a hill-girt plain ; 
The front of life's embattled lines ; 

A mound beside the heaving main. 

These are the scenes : a boy appears ; 

Set life'.- round dial in the sun, 
Count the swift arc of seventy years, 

His frame is dust ; his task is done. 

Yet pause upon the noontide hour, 
Eire the declining BUD has laid 

His bleaching rays on manhood's power, 

And look upon the mighty shade. 


No gloom that stately shape can hide, 
No change uncrown its brow ; behold ! 

Dark, calm, large-fronted, lightning-eyed, 
Earth has no double from its mould ! 

Ere from the fields by valor won 
The battle-smoke had rolled away, 

And bared the blood-red setting sun, 
His eyes were opened on the day. 

Ilis land was but a shelving strip 

Black with the strife that made it free ; 

He lived to see its banners dip 
Their fringes in the Western sea. 

The boundless prairies learned his name, 
His words the mountain echoes knew, 

The Northern breezes swept his fame 
From icy lake to warm bayou. 

In toil he lived ; in peace he died ; 

When life's full cycle was complete, 
Put off his robes of power and pride, 

And laid them at his Master's feet. 

Ilis rest is by the storm-swept waves 
Whom life's wild tempests roughly tried, 

Whose heart was like the streaming caves 
Of ocean, throbbing at hi> side. 

Death's cold white hand is like the snow 
Laid softly on the furrowed hill, 

It hides the broken Beams below, 

And leaves the summit brighter still. 


In vain the envious tongue upbraids ; 

Hi> name a nation's heart shall keep 
Till morning's latest sunlight lades 

On the hlue tablet of the deep ! 



THANK you, Mr. President, you \c 

kindly broke the ice ; 
Virtue should always be the first, — I 'm 
only Second Vice — 
(A vice is something with a screw that 's made to 

hold its jaw 
Till some old file has played away upon an ancient 

Sweet brothers by the Mother's side, the babes of 

days gone by, 
All nurslings of her Juno breasts whose milk is 

never dry, 
We come again, like half-grown boys, and gather 

at her beck 
About her knees, and on her lap, and clinging 

round her neck. 

We find her at her stately door, and in her ancient 

Dressed in the robes of red and green she always 
loved to wear. 


Her eve has all its radiant youth, her cheek its 

morning flame J 
We drop our roses as we go, hers flourish still the same. 

We have been playing many an hour, and far 

away we Ve strayed, 
Some laughing in the cheerful sun, some lingering 

in the shade ; 
And some have tired, and laid them down where 

darker shadows fall, — 
Dear as her loving voice may be, they cannot hear 

its call. 

What miles we Ve travelled since we shook the 
dew-drops from our shoes 

We gathered on tins classic green, so famed for 
heavy dues ! 

How many boys have joined the game, how many 
slipped away, 

Since we Ve been running up and down, and Inn- 
ing out our play ! 

One boy at work with book and brief, and one 

with gown and band, 
One sailing vessels on the pool, one digging in the 

One flying paper kites on change, one planting 

little pills, — 
The seeds of certain annual llowers well known as 

little bills. 

What maidens met us on our way, and clasped us 

hand in hand I 
What cherubs, — not the legless kind, that liv, hu! 

never Maud ! 



How many a youthful head we've seen put on its 
Bilver crown ! 

What sudden changes back again to youth's em- 
purpled brown ! 

But fairer Bights have met our eyes, and broader 

lights have shone, 
Since others lit their midnight lamps where once 

we trimmed our own ; 
A thousand trains that flap the sky with flags of 

rushing fire, 
And, throbbing in the Thunderer's hand, Thought's 

million-chorded lyre. 

We 've seen the sparks of Empire fly beyond the 

mountain bars, 
Till, glittering o'er the Western wave, they joined 

the setting stars ; 
And ocean trodden into paths that trampling giants 

To find the planet's vertebra: and sink its spinal 


We 've tried reform, — and chloroform, — and both 
have turned our brain; 

When Prance called up the photograph, we roused 
the foe to pain; 

Just so those earlier Bages .-bared the chaplet of re- 
nown, — 

Hera sent a bladder to the clouds, ours brought 
their lightning down. 

We Ve seen the little tricks of life, its varnish and 

Its stucco-fronts of character flake off and disappear; 



We 've learned that oft the brownest hands will 
heap the biggest pile, 

And met with many a "perfect brick" beneath a 
rimless " tile," 

"What tdreams we 'ye had of deathless name, as 

scholars, statesmen, bards, 
While Fame, the lady with the trump, held up her 

picture cards ! 
Till, haying nearly played our game, she gayly 

whispered, " Ah ! 
I said you should be something grand, — you '11 

soon be grandpapa." 

Well, well, the old have had their day, the young 

must take their turn ; 
There 's something always to forget, and something 

still to learn ; 
But how to tell what 's old or young, the tap-root 

from the sprigs, 
Since Florida revealed her fount to Ponce de Leon 

Twiggs ? 

The wisest was a Freshman once, just freed from 

bar and bolt, 
As noisy as a kettle-drum, as leggy as a colt : 
Don't be too savage with the boys, — the Primer 

<l<ns not Bay 
The kitten ought to go to church because " the cat 

doth prey." 

The law of merit and of age is not the rule of 

three ; 
Non constat that A. M. must prove as busy as 

A. B. 


When Wise the father tracked the son, ballooning 
through the skies, 

He taught a lesson to the old, — go thou and do 
' like Wise ! 

Now then, old hoys, and reverend youth, of high or 

low degree, 
Remember how we only get one annual out of 

And such as dare to simmer down three dinners 

into one 
Must cut their salads mighty short, and pepper 

well with fun. 

I Ve passed my zenith long ago, it 's time for me to 

A dozen planets wait to shine, and I am lingering 

As sometimes in the blaze of day a milk-and-watcry 

Stains with its dim and fading ray the lustrous blue 

of noon. 

Farewell ! vet let one echo rise to shake our ancient 

hall ; 
God save the Queen, — whose throne is here, — r the 

.Mother of us all ! 
Till dawns the great commencement-day on every 

Bhore and Bea, 
And "Expectantor" all mankind, to take their last 

Degree ! 




HE noon of summer sheds its ray 

On Harvard's holy ground ; 
The Matron calls, the sons obey, 
And gather smiling round. 
Cnoitus. — Then old and young together stand, 
The sunshine and the snow, 
As heart to heart, and hand in hand, 
We sing hefore we go ! 

Her hundred opening doors have swung ; 

Through every storied hall 
The pealing echoes loud have rung, 

" Thrice welcome one and all! " 

Then old mid young, etc. 

We floated through her peaceful bay, 

To sail life's stormy seas ; 
But left our anchor where it lay 

Beneath her green old trees. 

Then old and young, etc. 

ks now we lift its lengthening chain, 

That held us fast of old, 
The rusted rings grow bright again, — 

Their iron turns to gold. 

Then old and young, etc. 


Though scattered ere the setting sun, 
As leaves when wild winds blow, 

Our home La here, our hearts are one, 
Till Charles forgets to flow. 

Then old and young, etc. 




LL overgrown with bush and fern, 

And Btraggling clomps of tangled trees, 
With trunks that lean and houghs that 
Bent eastward by the mastering breeze, — 
With Bpongy hogs that drip and fill 
A yellow pond with muddy rain, 
Beneath the Bhaggy southern hill 

Lies wet and low the Shawmut plain. 
And hark! the trodden branches crack; 
A crow Haps off with startled scream ; 
A -: raying woodchuck canters back; 

A bittern rises from the stream ; 
Lcaj.- from his lair a frightened deer; 

An otter plunges in the pool ; — 
comes old Shawnnit's pioneer, 
The parson on his brindled hull ! 



The streets are thronged with trampling feet, 

The northern hill is ridged with graves, 
But night and morn the drum is beat 

To frighten down the " rebel knaves." 
The stones of King Street still are red, 

And yet the bloody red-coats come : 
I hear their pacing sentry's tread, 

The click of steel, the tap of drum, 
And over all the open green, 

Where grazed of late the harmless kine, 
The cannon's deepening ruts are seen, 

The war-horse stamps, the bayonets shine. 
The clouds are dark with crimson rain 

Above the murderous hirelings' den, 
And soon their whistling showers shall stain 

The pipe-clayed belts of Gage's men. 


Around the green, in morning light. 

The spired and palaced Bummits blaze, 
And, sunlike, from her Beacon-height 

The dome-crowned city spreads her rays ; 
They span the waves, they belt the plains, 

They skirt the roads with bands of white, 
Till with a flash of gilded panes 

Yon farthest hill-side bounds the Bight. 
Peace, Freedom, Wealth ! no fairer view, 

Though with the wild-bird's restless wings 

We sailed beneath the noontide's blue 

Or chased the moonlight's endless rings I 


Here, fitly raised by grateful hands 

ffis holiest memory to recall, 
Tile Hero's, Patriot's image stands; 

He led our sires who won them all! 

November 14, 1859. 


SEN legislators keep the law, 

When hanks dispense with holts and 
locks, — 
When berries — whortle, rasp, and straw — 
( irow bigger downwards through the box, — 

Winn he that selleth house or land 
Shows leak in roof or flaw in right, — 

When haberdashers choose the stand 

Whose window hath the broadest light, — 

When preachers tell us all they think, 
And party leaders all they mean, — 

When what we pay for, that we drink, 
From real grape and coffee-bean, — 

When lawyers take what they would give, 
And doctor- give what they would take, — 

When city fathers eat to live, 

Save when they fast for conscience* sake, — 

When one that hath a horse on sale 
Shall bring his merit to the proof, 

Without a lie for every nail 

That holds the iron on the hoof, — 


AVlien in the usual place for rips 

Our gloves are stitched with special care, 

And guarded well the whalebone tips 
Where first umbrellas need repair, — 

When Cuba's weeds have quite forgot 
The power of suction to resist, 

And claret-bottles harbor not 

Such dimples as would hold your fist, — 

When publishers no longer steal, 

And pay for what they stole before, — 

When the first locomotive's wheel 

Kolls through the Hoosac tunnel's bore;- 

Till then let dimming blaze away, 

And Miller's saints blow up the globe ; 

But when you see that blessed day, 
Then order your ascension robe ! 

PROLOGUE ! Well, of course the 

ladies know ; — 
I have my doubts. No matter, — here 
we go ! 

What is a Prologue ! Let our Tutor teach : 
Pro means beforehand ; logos stands for Bpeech, 
'Tis like the harper's prelude on the Btrings, 

The prima donna's COUTtesy 6TC Bhfi Binge : — 

Prologues in metre are to other pros 
As worsted stockings are to engine-hose. 


"The world 'fi a stage/' — as Shakespeare said, one 

day ; 
The Btage a world — was what he meant to say. 
The outside world 'a a blunder, that is clear ; 
The real world that Nature meant is here. 
Bere every foundling finds its lost mamma; 
Each rogue, repentant, melts his stern papa; 
Misers relent, the spendthrift's debts arc paid, 
The cheats are taken in the traps they laid; 
One after one the troubles all are past 
Till the fifth act comes right side up at last, 
When the young couple, old folks, rogues, and all, 
Join hands, .so happy at the curtain's fall. 
Here suffering virtue ever finds relief, 
And black-browed ruffians always come to grief. 
When the lorn damsel, with a frantic screech, 
And cheeks as hueless as a brandy-peach, 
Cries, "Help, kyind Heaven!" and drops upon 

her knees 
On the green — baize, — beneath the (canvas) trees, — 
See to her side avenging Valor fly : — 
" Ha ! Villain ! Draw ! Now, Tcrraitorr, yield or 

die ! " 
When the poor hero flounders in despair, 
Some dear lost uncle turns up millionnaire, 
Clasps the young scapegrace with paternal joy, 
Sobs on his neck, "My hoy I My BOX ! ! MY 

BOY ! ! ! " 

Ours, then, sweet friends, the real world to-night, 
Of love that conquers in di- spite. 

Ladies, attend ! While woful cares and doubt 
Wrong the BOft paasion in the world without, 

Though lurt line scowl, though prudence interfere, 
One thing is certain : Love will triumph here ! 


Lords of creation, whom your ladies rule, — 

The world's great masters, when you 're out of 

school, — 
Learn the brief moral of our evening's play: 
Man has his will, — hut woman has her way ! 
While man's dull spirit toils in smoke and lire, 
AVoman's swift instinct threads the electric wire, — 
The magic bracelet stretched beneath the waves 
Beats the black giant with his score of Blares. 
All earthly powers confess your sovereign an 
But that one rebel, — woman's wilful heart. 
All foes you master , but a woman's wit 
Lets daylight through you ere you know you're hit. 
So, just to picture what her art can do, 
Hear an old story, made as good as new. 

Rudolph, professor of the headsman's trade, 
Alike was famous for his arm and blade. 
One day a prisoner Justice had to kill 
Knelt at the block to test the artist's skill. 
Bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and shaggy- 
Rudolph the headsman rose above the crowd. 
His falchion lightened with a sudden gleam, 
As the pike's armor flashes in the stream. 
He sheathed his blade ; he turned as if to go J 
The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow. 
" Why strikest not 1 Perform thy murderous act." 
The prisoner said. (His voice was Blightly cracked.) 
"Friend, I h<n; struck," the artisl straighl replied; 
"Wait but one moment, and yourself decide." 

He held his snuil-hox, — " Now then, if you please! " 

The prisoner sniffed, and, with a crashing sneeze, 

Off hifl head tumbled, — howled along the lloor, — 

Bounced dow n the steps ; — the prisonersaid no more ! 



Woman ! thy falchion is a glittering eye; 
It* death lurk in it, how sweet to die ! 
Thou takest hearts as Rudolph took the head ; 
We die with love, and never dream we 're dead ! 



f&t$z>£>fj() you know the Old Man of the Sea, of 
the Sea ! 

Have you met with that dreadful old 
man ? 

If you have n't been caught, you will be, you will be ; 
For catch you he must and he can. 

lie does n't hold on by your throat, by your throat, 

A- of old in the terrible tale; 
But he grapples you tight by the coat, by the coat, 

Till its buttons and button-holes fail. 

There 's the charm of a snake in his eye, in his eye, 

Ami a polypus-grip in his hands; 
You cannot go back, nor get by, nor get by, 

If you look at the Bpot where he stands. 

O, yon 're grabbed ! See his claw on your sleeve, 
on vour Bleeve ! 
It is Sinbad's old Man of the Sea! 
You're a Christian, no doubt you believe, you 
believe : 
You 're a martyr, whatever you be! 


— Is the breakfast-hour past! They must wait, 

they must wait. 
While the coffee boils sullenly down, 
While the Johnny-cuke burns on the grate, on the 
And the toast is done frightfully brown. 

— Yes, your dinner will keep ; let it eool, let it cool, 
And Madam may worry and fret, 

And children half-starved go to school, go to school; 
lie can't think of sparing you yet. 

— Hark ! the bell for the train ! " Come along ! 

Come along ! 
For there is n't a second to lose." 
"All aboakd!" (He holds on.) "Fsht! ding- 
dong ! Fsht ! ding-dong ! " — 
You can follow on foot, if you choose. 

— There 's a maid with a cheek like a peach, like a 

That is waiting for you in the church ; — 
Hut lie clings to your side like a leech, like a leech, 
And you leave your lost bride in the lurch. 

— There's a babe in a lit, — hurry quick! hurry 

quick ! 

To the doctor's as fast as you can ! 
The baby is off, while you stick, while you stick, 

In the grip of the dreadful Old Man ! 

— I have looked <>u the face of the Bore, of the BoK ; 
The voice of the Simple I know ; 

I have welcomed the Flat at my door, at my door; 

I have Bal bj the .side of the Slow ; 


I hare walked like a lamb by the friend, by the 
That stuck to my skirts like a burr ; 
I have borne the stale talk without end, without 
Of the sitter whom nothing could stir : 

But my hamstrings grow loose, and I shake, and I 

At the sight of the dreadful Old Man ; 
Yea, I quiver and quake, and I take, and I take, 

To my legs with what vigor I can ! 

the dreadful Old Man of the Sea, of the Sea ! 

He 's come back like the Wandering Jew ! 
He has had his cold claw upon me, upon me, — 

And be sure that he '11 have it on you ! 



OME ! fill a fresh bumper, — for why 

should we go 


While the nootar still reddens our cups 
as they flow 


Pour out the ri, - h jwee e still bright with the sun, 

Till o'er the brimmed crystal the wiUie*j bhull run. 


half-ripened apples 

The purplo globed - el tutors their life-dews have bled ; 

taste 6ugar of lead 

How sweet is the bruulh of the fragmiiou thuy phcd ! 

rank poisons wmet ' ' .' 

For summer's luot fujul) lie hid in the whkj 

stable-boys smoking lonp-nln^g 

That were garnered by »««k«t!w4«t4ttt*gfct^H4mr 
tho vinuo . 

scowl howl scoff sneer 

Then a pmilo , and a gl*t», and a Um#, and a cheer , 

strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer 

For all tlio good wine, m:d wo \u romu of it liore ! 
In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall, 

Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all ! 

Long hvu the guy tiosYtmt riiat luu^luj iur vm all ! 



AVE yon heard of the wonderful onc- 
hoss Bhay, 
Thai was built in such a logical way 

It ran a hundred years to a (lav, 

And then, of a sudden, it ah, bul stay, 

I '11 tell yon what happened without delay, 
Scaring the parson into fits, 
Frightening people out of their wits, — 
Have you ever heard of that, I Baj ! 


Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. 
Georgius Secundus was then alive, — 

Snuffy old drone from the German hive. 
That was the year when Lisbon-town 

Saw the earth open and gulp her down, 
And Braddock'a army was done so brown, 
Left without a scalp to its crown. 
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day 
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay. 

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, 
There is always somt wJu re a weakest spot, — 
In hul), tire, felloe, in spring or tliill, 
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, 
In screw, bolt, thoroughbraee, — lurking still, 
Find it somewhere you must and will, — 
Above or below, or within or without, — 
And that 's the reason, beyond a doubt, 
A chaise breaks down, but does n't wear out. 

But the Deacon swore, (as Deacons do, 
With an " I dew viun," or an " 1 tell yeou") 
lie would build one shay to beat the taown 

V the keounty m' all the kentry raoun'; 

It should be so built that it couldn' break daowu : 
— "Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty plain 
Tliut the weakes' place mus* Btan* the strain; 

V the way t' fix it, uz J maintain, 

I> only jest 
T' make that place uz Strong uz the rest." 

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk 
Where he could find the strongest oak, 

That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke, — 

3 1 6 THE DEA CON' S MA S TERPJE < 1 ■/. 

That was for spokes and floor and sills ; 

He sent for lancewood to make the thills ; 

The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees; 

Tlie panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese. 

But lasts like iron for things like these ; 

The hubs of logs from the " Settler's eflnm," — 

Last of its timber, — they couldn't sell 'em, 

Never an axe had seen their chips, 

And the wedges flew from between their lips, 

Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; 

Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, 

Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, 

Steel of the finest, bright and blue; 

Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; 

Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide 

Found in the pit when the tanner died. 

That was the way he "put her through." — 

" There ! " said the Deacon, " naow she '11 dew ! " 

Do ! I tell you, I rather guess 

She was a wonder, and nothing less ! 

Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, 

Deacon and deaconess dropped away, 

Children and grandchildren — where 1 were they ! 

But there stood the stout old one-boss shay 

As fresh as on Lisbon-eaxthquake-day ! 

Eighteen hundred; — it came and found 
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. 
Eighteen hundred increased by ten ; — 
" Bahnsum kerridge " they called it then, 
Eighteen hundred and twenty came; — 
Running as usual ; much the same, 


Thirty and forty at last arrive, 

And then come fifty, and fifty-five. 

Little of all we value here 

Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year 

Without both feeling and looking queer. 

In fact, there 's nothing that keeps its youth, 

So far as I know, but a tree and truth. 

(This is a moral that runs at large ; 

Take it. — You're weleome. — Xo extra charge.) 

First of November, — the Earthquake-day. — 
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, 
A general flavor of mild decay, 
Bat nothing local as one may say. 
There couldn't be, — for the Deacon's art 
Had made it so like in every part 
That there was n't a chance for one to start. 
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, 
And the floor was just as strong as the sills, 
And the panels just as strong as the floor, 
And the whipplctrce neither less nor more, 
And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, 
And spring and axle and hub encore. 
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt 
In another hour it will be worn out ! 

First of November, 'Fifty-five! 

This morning the parson takes a drive. 

Now, small ! Out of the way ! 

I In- the wonderful one-hoss Bhay, 

Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. 

' k lliiddnp ! " said the parson. — Off went they. 


The parson was working his Sunday's text,- 
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed 

At what the — Moses — was coming next. 
All at once the horse stood still, 
Close by the meetV-house on the hill. 

— First a shiver, and then a thrill. 
Then something decidedly like a spill,— 
And the parson was sitting upon a rock, 

At half past nine by the meetV-house clock, 
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock ! 

— What do you think the parson found, 
When lie got up and stared around ? 
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, 
As if it had been to the mill and ground'! 
You sec, of course, if you 're not a dunce, 
How it went to pieces all at once, — 

All at once, and nothing first, — 
Just as bubbles do when they burst. 

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. 
Logic is logic. That 's all I say. ' 



ii Tin;. 

yv X candent ire the solar splendor flames; 
" -\f T,lc fo,c ' s > languesceut, pend from arid 

6^m^ ramefl : 

«;o.^\ Bis humid front the rive, anheling, wipes, 
And dreams of erring on rentiferous ripes. 


How dulcc to vive occult to mortal eves, 
Dorm on the herb with none to supervise, 
Carp the Buave berries from the crescent vine, 
And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine ! 

To me, alas ! no verdurous visions come, 
Save von exiguous pool's conferva-scum, — 
No concave vast repeats the tender hue 
That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue ! 

Me wretched ! Let me curr to quercine shades ! 
Etfund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids ! 
(), might I vole to some umbrageous clump, — 
Depart, — be off, — excede, — evade, — crump ! 


" Man wants but little here below." 

ITTLE I ask ; my wants are few ; 
I only wish a hut of stone, 
(A very plain brown stone will do,) 
That I may call my own ; - 
And close at hand is such a one, 
\\\ yonder street that fronts the sun. 

Plain food is quite enough for me : 

Three courses are as -."M as ten; — 
If Nature can BUDSlSt on Three, 

Thank Heaven for three. Amen! 
I always thought cold victual nice; — 
My choice would he vanilla-ice. 


I care not much for gold or land ; — 

Give me a mortgage here and there, — 
Some good bank-stock, — some note of hand, 

( )r trifling railroad share, — 
I only ask that Fortune send 
A little more than I shall spend. 

Honors are silly toys, I know, 

And titles are but empty names ; 
I would, perhaps, be Plenipo, — 

But only near St. James ; 
I 'm very sure I should not care 
To fill our Gubernator's chair. 

Jewels arc bawbles ; 'tis a sin 

To care for such unfruitful things ; — 
One good-sized diamond in a pin, — 

Some, not so large, in rings, — 
A ruby, and a pearl, or so, 
Will do for me ; — I laugh at show. 

My dame should dress in cheap attire; 

(Good, heavy silks are never dear;) — 
I own perhaps L might desire 

Some shawls of true Cashmere, — 
Some marrowy crapes of China silk, 
Like wrinkled Bkins on scalded milk. 

I would not have the horse I drive 

So last that folks must stop and stare; 
An easy unit — two, forty-five — 

Suits me ; 1 do not care ; — 
IVrlmps \"V just a singh spurt, 
Some seconds less would do no hurt. 


Of pictures, I should like to own 

Titians and Raphaels three or four, — 
I love so much their style and tone, — 

One Turner, and no more, 
(A landscape, — foreground golden dirt, — 
The Bunshine painted with a squirt.) 

Of books but few, — some fifty score 

For daily use, and bound for wear; 
The rest upon an upper floor ; — 

Some Uttlc luxury there 
Of red morocco's gilded gleam, 
And vellum rich as country cream. 

Busts, cameos, gems, — such things as these, 

Which others often show for pride, 
/ value for their power to please, 

And selfish churls deride ; — 
One Stradiyarius, I confess, 
Two Meerschaums^ I would fain possess. 

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn, 
Nor ape the glittering upstart fool; — 
Shall not carved tables serve my turn, 

But all must be of buhl ? 
Give grasping pomp its double share, — 
I ask but one recumbent chair. 

Thus humble let me live and die, 

Nor Ion-- for Midas' golden touch; 
If Heaven more generous gifts deny, 

I shall not miss them much, — 
Too grateful for the blessing lent 
Of simple tastes and mind content ! 



/SfcjlSjflACTS respecting an old arm-chair. 

--RSI At Cambridge. Is kept in the College 
Seems but little the worse for wear. 
That' s remarkable when I say 
It was old in President Holyoke's day. 
(One of his boys, perhaps you know, 
Died, at one hundred, years ago.) 
He took lodgings for rain or shine 
Under green bed-clothes in '69. 

Know old Cambridge ? Hope you do. — 
Born there? Don't say so ! I was, too. 
(Born in a house with a gambrel-roof, — 
Standing Mill, if you must have proof. — 
"Gambrel? — Gambrel ?" — Let me beg 
Yon '11 look at a horse's hinder leg, — 
Firsl great angle above the hoof, — 
That 's the gambrel ; hence gambrel-roof.) 
— Nicest place that ever was Been, — 
Colleges red and Common green, 
Sidewalks brownish with trees between. 
Sweetest >p<>t beneath the Bkies 
When the canker-worms don't rise, — 
When the dost, that sometimes flies 
Into your mouth and ears and l 
In a quiet slumber li« 


Not in the shape of unbaked pies 
Such as barefoot children prize. 

A kind of harbor it seems to be, 
Facing the now of a boundless sea. 
Rows of gray old Tutors stand 
Banged like rocks above the sand ; 
Boiling beneath them, soft and green, 
Breaks the tide of bright sixteen, — 
One wave, two waves, three waves, four, — 
Sliding up the sparkling floor : 
Then it ebbs to flow no more, 
Wandering oft' from shore to shore 
With its freight of golden ore ! 
— Pleasant place for boys to play; — 
Better keep your girls away; 
Hearts get rolled as pebbles do 
Which countless fingering waves pursue, 
And every classic beach is strown 
With heart-shaped pebbles of blood-red stone. 

But this is neither here nor there ; — 
I'm talking about an old arm-chair. 

You've heard, no doubt, of Parson Turell? 

Over at Medford he used to dwell; 

Married one of the Mather.-' folk; 

Got with his wife a chair of oak, — 

Funny old chair with seat like we L 

Sharp behind and broad front edge, — 

( )ne of the oddest of human things, 

Turned all over with knobs and rings, — 

But heavy, and wide, and deep, and -rand, — 

Fit fur tin- worthies of the land, — 


Chief-Justice Scwall a cause to try in, 
Or Cotton Mather to sit — and lie — in. 

— Parson Turell bequeathed the same 
To a certain student, — Smith by name; 
These were the terms, as Ave are told : 
"Saide Smith saide Chaire to have and holde; 
When he doth graduate, then to passe 

To y° oldest Youth in y° Senior ClaSft 

On Payment of" — (naming a certain sum) — 

"By him to whom y e Chaire shall come ; 

He to y e oldest Senior next, 

And soc forever," — (thus runs the text,) — 

"But one Crown lesse then he gave to claime, 

That being his Debte for use of same." 

Smith transferred it to one of the Bbowns, 

And took his money, — five silver crowns. 

Brown delivered it up to MOOBE, 

Who paid, it is plain, not five, but four. 

Moore made over the chair to Lee, 

Who gave him crowns of silver three. 

Lee conveyed it unto 1)i;i:\v, 

And now the payment, of course, was two. 

Drew gave up the chair to Dunn, — 

All he got, as you see, was one. 

Dunn released the chair to Ball, 

And got by the bargain no crown at all. 

— And now it passed to a second 1>i:<>\\ \. 
Who took it and likewise claimed a crown. 
When Brown conveyed it unto Wabe, 

II;i\ ing had one crow tt, fcO make it fair, 

He paid him two crown- to take the chair; 
And Warty being honest, (as all Wares be,) 

lie paid one Pol i BR, w ho took it, thn 6. 


Four got Robinson ; five got Dix ; 
Johnson primus demanded six; 
And so the sum kept gathering still 
Till after the battle of Bunker's Hill. 

— When paper money became so cheap, 
Folks wouldn't count it, but said "a heap," 
A certain Kiciiards, — the books declare, — 
(A. M. in '90 3 I 've looked with care 
Through the Triennial, — name not there,) — 
This person, Kiciiards, was offered then 
Eight score pounds, but would have ten ; 
Nine, I think, was the sum he took, — 
Not quite certain, — but see the book. 
— By and by the wars were still, 
But nothing had altered the Parson's will. 
The old arm-chair was solid vet, 
But saddled with such a monstrous debt ! 
Things grew quite too bad to bear, 
Taving such sums to get rid of the chair! 
But dead men's fingers hold awful tight, 
And there was the will in black and white, 
Plain enough for a child to spell. 
What should be done no man could tell, 
For the chair was a kind of nightmare curse, 
And every season but made it worse. 

As a last resort, to clear the doubt, 
They got old ( rOVEHNOB 1 1 \\< < >< k out. 
The Governor came with his Light-horse Troop 
And hia mounted trackmen, all cock-a-hoop; 
Halberds glittered and colors flew, 
French horns whinnied and trumpets blew, 
The yellow tills whistled beneath their teeth 
And the bumble-bee bass-drums boomed beneath : 


So he rode with .ill his band, 

Till the President met him, cap in hand. 

— The Governor ''hefted" the crowns, and said, — 

"A will is a will, and the Parson 's dead." 

The Governor hefted the crowns. Said he, — 

" There is your p'int. And here *s my fee. 

These are the terms you must fulfil, — 

On such conditions I BREAK the will!" 

The Governor mentioned what these should be. 

(Just wait a minute and then you'll see.) 

The President prayed. Then all was still, 

And the Governor rose and broke the will ! 

— " About those conditions ? " Well, now you go 

And do as I tell you, and then you '11 know. 

Once a year, on Commencement day, 

If you '11 only take the pains to stay, 

You "11 see the President in the Chair, 

Likewise the Governor sitting there. 

The President rises; both old and young 

May hear his speech in a foreign tongue, 

The meaning whereof, as lawyers swear, 

Is this : Can 1 keep this old arm-ehair ! 

And then his Excellency bows, 

As much as to Bay that he all< »\\ -. 

The Vice-Giib. nexl i> called by name ; 

He bows like t'other, which means the same. 

And all the officers round 'em bow, 

A- much as t<> Bay that they allow. 

And a lot of parchments about the chair 

Are handed t<> witnesses then and there, 

And then the lawyers hold it clear 
That the chair is Baft for another year. 

God bios you, Gentlemen I Learn to give 
Money t«> colleges while you live. 

DE SAUTY. 327 

Don't be Billy and think you '11 try 

T<> bother the colleges, when you die, 

With codicil this, and codicil that, 

That Knowledge may starve while Law grows fat; 

For there never was pitcher that wouldn't spill, 

And there f e always a Haw in a donkey's will ! 



Professor. Blue-Nose. 


ELL me, Provincial ! speak, Ccrulco- 
Nasal ! 
Lives there one De Sauty extant now 
among you. 
Whispering Boanerges, son of silent thunder, 
Holding talk with nations ? 

Is there a De Sauty ambulant on Tellns, 
Bifid-cleft like mortals, dormient in night-cap, 
Having Bight, smell, hearing, Pood-receiving feature 
Three times daily patent ! 

Breathes there Buch a being, Ceruleo-Nasal ? 
Oris he&mythus, — ancient word for "humbug," — 

Such as Livy told about the wolf that wet-nursed 
Romulus and Kemi; 

328 DE SAUTY. 

Whs he born of woman, this alleged De Sauty ! 
Or a living product of galvanic action, 
Like the acarus bred in Crosse's flint-solution! 
Speak, thou Cyano-Rhinal ! 


Many tilings thou askest, jackknife-bearing strait 
Much-conjecturing mortal, pork-and-treacle-waster ! 
Pretermit thy whittling, wheel thine ear-flap toward 
Thou slialt hear them answered. 

When the charge galvanic tingled through the cable, 
At the polar focus of the wire electric 
Suddenly appeared a white-faced man among u> : 
Called himself " De Sauty." 

As the small opossum held in pouch maternal 
Grasps the nutrient organ whence the term mammalia, 
So the unknown stranger held the wire electric, 
Sucking in the current 

When the current strengthened, bloomed the pale- 
faced stranger, — 

Took no drink nor victual, vet grew fat and rosy, — 
And from time to time, in Bharp articulation, 
Said, "AU right! De Sai n." 

Prom the Lonely station passed the utterance, spread- 

Through the pines and hemlocks to the groves of 

Till the land was tilled with l<>ud reverberations 
of -All right 1 De Sai ry." 


When the current slackened, drooped the mystic 
stranger, — 

Faded, faded, laded, as the stream grew weaker, — 

Wasted to a shadow, with a hartshorn odor 

Of disintegration. 

Drops of deliquescence glistened on his forehead, 
Whitened round his feet the dust of efllorescence, 
Till one Monday morning, when the flow suspended, 
There was no De Saury. 

Nothing but a cloud of elements organic, 
C. <>. H. X. Ferritin, Chlor. Flu. Sil. Potassa, 
Calc. Sod. Phosph. Mag. Sulphur, Mang. ('.) Alu- 
min. (?) Cuprum, (.') 
Such as man is made of. 

Born of stream galvanic, with it he had perished ! 
There is no De Santy now there is no current! 
Give us a new cable, then again we '11 hear him 
Cry, " .1// rigid ! De Sauty." 


FOTl one hour of youthful joy I 
Give back my twentieth spring ! 
1 rather Laugh a bright-haired boy 
Than reign a gray-beard king ! 

Off with the wrinkled spoil- of age ! 

Away with Learning's crown! 
Tear out life's wisdom-written page, 

And dash its trophies down ! 


One moment let my life-blood stream 
From boyhood's fount of flame! 

Give me one giddy, reeling dream 
Of life all love and fame ! 

— My listening angel heard the prayer, 
And, calmly smiling, said, 

" If I but touch thy silvered hair, 
Thy hasty wish hath sped. 

" But is there nothing in thy track 

To bid thee fondly stay, 
While the swift seasons hurry hack 

To find the wished-for day ! M 

— Ah, truest soul of womankind ! 
Without thee, what were life ' 

One bliss I cannot leave behind : 
I '11 take — my — precious —wife ! 

— The angel took a sapphire pen 
And wrote in rainbow dew, 

u The man would be a boy again, 
And be a husband too |" 

— " And is there nothing yet unsaid 
Before the change appears >. 

Remember, all their gifts have Sed 
Witb those dissoh ing years ! " 

Why, yes; for memory would recall 

My fond paternal joys ; 

3 COUld not bear to leave them all ; 

1 'Jl take — my — girl _ and — boys ! 

33 1 


The wnffing angel dropped his pen, — 
"Why, this will never do; 

The man would be a boy again, 
And be a father too ! " 

And bo I laughed, — my laughter woke 
The household with its noise, — 

And wrote my dream, when morning broke, 
To please the gray-haired boys. 


LA SIT out a stream of blood-red wine ! — 

For I would drink to other days ; 
And brighter shall their memory shine, 
Seen flaming through its crimson blaze. 
The roses die, the summers fade ; 

But every ghost of boyhood's dream 
By Nature's magic power is laid 

To sleep beneath this blood-red stream. 

It filled the purple grapes that lay 

And drank the splendors of the sun 
Where the long Bummer's cloudless day 

I- mirrored in the broad ( raronne ; 
It pictures still the bacchant Bhapes 

That saw their hoarded Bunlight shed, — 
The maidens dancing on the grapes, — 

Their milk-white ankles splashed with red. 



Bcncatli these waves of crimson lie, 

In rosy fetters prisoned last, 
Those flitting shapes that never die, 

The swift-winged visions of the pa 
Kiss hut the crystal's mystic rim, 

Each shadow rends its flowery chain, 
Springs in a babble from its brim 

And walks the chambers of the brain. 

Poor Beauty! time and fortune's wrong 

No form nor feature may withstand, — 
Thy wrecks are scattered all along, 

Like emptied sea-shells on the sand ; — 
Yet, sprinkled with this blushing rain, 

The dust restores each 1 (looming girl, 
As if the sea-shells moved again 

Their glistening lips of pink and pearl. 

Here lies the home of schoolboy life, 

With creaking stair and wind-swept hall, 

And, scarred by many a truant knife, 
Our old initials on the wall ; 

Here rest — their keen vibrations mute — 
The shout of voices known BO well, 

The ringing laugh, the wailing- flute, 
The chiding of the Bharp-tongued bell. 

Ihre, clad in burning robes, arc laid 

Life's blossomed joys, untimely Bhed ; 
And here those cherished forms have Btrayed 

We miss awhile, and call them dead. 

\Yh;it wizard fills the maddening glass ! 
What soil the enchanted clusters grew, 
That buried passions wake and pass 

In headed drops of fiery dew ' 


Nay, take the cup of blood-red wine, — 

Our hearts can boast a warmer glow, 
Filled from a vintage more divine, — 

Calmed, but not chilled, by winter's snow ! 
To-night the palest wave we sip 

Rich as the priceless draught shall be 
That wet the bride of Cana's lip, 

The wedding wine of Galilee ! 


IIAT age was older once than now, 
In spite of locks untimely shed, 

Or silvered on the youthful brow ; 

That babes make love and children wed. 

That sunshine had a heavenly glow, 

Which faded with those " good old days " 

AVhen winters came with deeper snow, 
And autumns with a softer haze. 

That — mother, sister, wife, or child — 
The "best of women " each has known. 

Were schoolboys ever half 80 wild ! 

How young the grandpapas have grown! 

That but for this our souls were free, 
And hut for that our lives were blest; 

That in Borne Beason yet to be 

Our cares will leave us time to rest. 



Whene'er we groan with ache of pain, — 

Some common ailment of the race, — 
Though doctors think the matter plain, — 
That ours is "a peculiar case." 

That when like babes with fingers burned 
We count one bitter maxim more, 

Our lesson all the world has learned. 
And men arc wiser than before. 

That when we sob o'er fancied woes. 
The angels hovering overhead 

Count every pitying drop that Hows, 
And love us for the tears we Bhed. 

That when we stand with tearless eye 
And turn the beggar from our door, 

They still approve us when we sigh, 
"Ah, had I but one thousand man ! " 

Though temples crowd the crumbled brink 

Overhanging truth's eternal flow, 
Their tablets bold with what we think, 

Their echoes dumb to what Wi know; 

That one unquestioned text we read, 
All doubt beyond, all fear above, 

Nor crackling pile nor cursing creed 
Can burn or blot it : GOD [8 Loi E I 




HE sunbeams, lost for half a year, 

Slant through my pane their mornini 
rays ; 
For dry northwesters eold and clear, 
The east blows in its thin blue haze. 

And first the snowdrop's bells are seen, 
Then close against the sheltering wall 

The tulip's horn of dusky green, 
The peony's dark unfolding ball. 

The goldcn-chaliced crocus burns ; 

The long narcissus-blades appear ; 
The cone-beaked hyacinth returns 

To light her blue-flamed chandelier. 

The willow's whistling lashes, wrong 
By the wild winds of gusty March, 

With sallow leaflets lightly strung, 
Are swaying by the tufted larch. 

The elms have robed their slender spray 
With full-blown flower and embryo Leaf; 

Wide o'er the clasping arch of day 
Soars like a cloud their hoary chief. 

Sec the proud tulip's flaunting cup, 
Thar names in glory for an hour, — 

Behold it withering, — then look up, — 
How meek the forest monarch's flower 1 


When wake the violets, Winter dies ; 

When sprout the elm-buds. Spring is near 
When lilacs blossom, Bummer cries, 

"Bud, little roses ! Spring is here ! M 

The windows blush with fresh bouquets, 
Cut with the May-dew on their lips; 

The radish all its bloom displays, 

Tink as Aurora's finger-tips. 

Nor less the flood of light that showers 
On beauty's changed corolla-shades, — 

The walks are gay as bridal bowers 
With rows of many-petalled maids. 

The scarlet shell-fish click and clash 
In the blue barrow where they slide; 

The horseman, proud of streak and splash, 
Creeps homeward from his morning ride. 

I [ere comes the dealer's awkward string, 

With ueck in rope and tail in knot, — 

Rough colis, with careless country-swing, 

\\\ la/v walk or Blouching trot. 

Wild filly from the mountain-side, 

Doomed to the dose and chafing thill.- 

Lend me thy Long, untiring stride 
To seek with thee ihv western hills] 

T hear the whispering voice of Spring, 
The thrush's trill, the robin's cry, 

Like some i ■ bird with prisoned win- 
That Bits and sings, bul Longs to fly. 



O for one spot of living green, — 

One little spot where leaves can grow, — 

To love anblamed, to walk unseen, 
To dream above, to sleep below ! 


'HAVE singer of the coming time, 

Sweet minstrel of the joyous present, 
i Crowned with the noblest wreath of 

The holly-leaf of Ayrshire's peasant, 
Good by! Good by! — Our hearts and hands, 

Our lips in honest Saxon phrases, 
Cry, God be with him, till he stands 
His feet among the English daisies ! 

'T is here we part ; — for other eyes 

The busy deck, the fluttering streamer, 
The dripping arms that plunge and rise, 

The waves in foam, the ship in tremor, 
The kerchieft wai ing from the pier, 

The cloudy pillar gliding o'er him, 
The deep blue desert, lone ;ind drear, 

With heaven above and home before him ! 

Bis home! — the Western giant -miles, 
And twirls the spotty -lobe to find it; — 

This little speck the British Isles ! 
T is but a freckle, — never mind it ! 


He laughs, and all his prairies roll, 

Each gurgling cataract roars and chuckles, 
And ridges stretched from pole to pole 

Heave till they crack their iron knuckles ! 

But Memory blushes at the sneer, 

And Honor turns with frown defiant, 
And Freedom, leaning on her Bpear, 

Laughs louder than the laughing giant : 

"An islet is a world,'' she said, 

"When glory with its dust has Mended, 

And Britain keeps her noble dead 

Till earth and seas and skies are rended ! " 

Beneath each swino-incr forest-bough 

Some arm as stout in death reposes, — 
From wave-washed loot to heaven-kissed brow 

Her valor's life-blood runs in ro» 
Nay, let our brothers of the West 

Write Bmiling in their florid pages, 
One half her soil has walked the rot 

In poets, heroes, martyrs, sages I 

Hugged in the clinging billow's clasp, 

Prom Bea-weed fringe to mountain heather, 

The British oak with rooted grasp 
Her slender handful holds together ; — 

With dill's of white and bower- of green, 

And Ocean narrowing to caress her, 
And lulls and threaded Btreams between, — 
Our little mother Lsle, God bless herl 

In earth's broad temple where we Stand, 

Fanned by the eastern piles that brought us. 


We hold the missal in our band, 

Bright with the lines our Mother taught as; 
Where'er it.- blazoned page betrays 

The glistening links of gilded fetters, 
Behold, the half-turned leaf displays 

Her rubric stained in crimson letter.- ! 

Enough ! To -peed a parting friend 

T is vain alike to speak and listen ; — 
Yet -ray, — these feeble accents Mend 

With rays of light from eyes that glisten. 
Good by ! once more, — and kindly tell 

In word.- of peace the young world's story, — 
And say, besides, we love too well 

Our mothers' soil, our fathers' glory ! 


§||^HOUGH young no more, we still would 
^JJprV dream 

LV\ Of beauty's dear deluding wiles; 
gsilfl The leagues of life to grayheards seem 
Shorter than boyhood's lingering miles. 

Who knows a woman'.- wild caprice 1 
It played with Goethe's silvered hair, 

And many a Holy Father's "niece" 
Has softly smoothed the papal chair. 

When sixty bids u- -i-h in vain 
To melt the heart of sweet sixteen, 

We think upon those ladies twain 

Whu loved BO well the tough old Dean. 


We sec the Patriarch's wintry face, 
The maid of Egypt's dusky glow, 
And dream that Youth and Age embrace, 

As April violets fill with snow. 

Tranced in her lord's Olympian smile 
His lotus-loving Memphian lies, — 

The musky daughter of the Nile, 
With plaited hair and almond eyes. 

Might we hut share one wild caress 
Ere life's autumnal hlossoms fall, 

And Earth's brown, clinging lips impress 
The^ong cold kiss that waits us all ! 

My bosom heaves, remembering yet 
The morning of that blissful day, 

When Rose, the flower of spring, I met, 
And gave my raptured soul away. 

Flung from her eyes of purest blue, 
A lasso, with its leaping chain, 

Light as a loop of larkspurs, flew 

O'er sense and spirit, heart and brain. 

Thou com'st to cheer my waning age, 
Sweet vision, waited for so long ! 

Dove that would seek the poet's cage 
Lured by the magic breath of song ! 

She blushes ! Ah, reluctant maid, 

Love's drapeau r<>\uj( the truth has told ! 

O'er girlhood's yielding barricade 

Floats the^rcat Leveller's crimson fold ! 

"the boys:' 


Come to my arms ! — love heeds not years ; 

No frost the bud of passion knows. — 
Ha ! what Lb this my frenzy hears? 

A voice behind me uttered, — Rose ! 

Sweet was her smile, — but not for me ; 

Alas ! when woman looks too kind, 
Just turn your foolish head and sec, — 

Some youth is walking close behind ! 


AS there any old fellow got mixed with 

the boys % 
If there has, take him out, without mak- 

Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite! 
Old Time is a liar ! We 're twenty to-night ! 

We 're twenty ! We 're twenty ! Who says we 

are more ? 
He *s tipsy, — young jackanapes ! — show him the 

door ! 
"Gray temples at twenty?" — Yes! whiU if we 

please ; 
Where the Miow-flakcs fall thickest there's nothing 

can freeze ! 

Was ir Bnowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake! 
Look close, — you will sec not a Bign of a flake! 
We want Borne new garlands for those we have shed, — 
And these are white roses in place of the red. 

342 "THE BOYS." 

We 've a trick, avc young fellows, you may have 

been told, 
Of talking (in public) as if wc were old : — 
That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge"; 
It's a neat little fiction, — of course it 'a all fudge. 

That fellow 's the " Speaker," — the one on the right ; 
" Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are yon to-night ! 
That's our "Member of Congress, " we say when 
we chaff; 

There 's the " Reverend " What 's his name '. — 
don't make me laugh. 

That hoy with the grave mathematical look 
Made believe he had written a wonderful book, 
And the Royal Society thought it was trm I 
So they chose him right in, — a good joke it was too ! 

There 's ahoy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain, 
That could harness a team with a logical chain ; 
When be spoke for our manhood in syllabled tire, 
Wc called him "The Justice," but now he 's "The 

And there V a nice youngster of excellent pith, — 
Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith; 
lint be Bhouted a song tor tbe brave and tbc free, — 

Just read on his medal, " My country," " of thee I " 

You hear that boy laughing ! — You think he 'sail fun ; 
lint the angels laugh, too, at the good lie has done; 
The children Laugh loud as the} troop to bis call, 
And the poor man that knows him Laughs Loudest 
of all ! 



Yes, we 're boys, — always playing with tongue or 

with pen ; 
And I Bometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men? 
Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay, 
Till the last dear companion drops smiling away 1 

Then here 's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray ! 
The Btars of its winter, the dews of its May ! 
And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, 
Dear Father, take care of thy children, the Boys! 

January 6, 1859. 


N the little southern parlor of the house 
you may have seen 
With the gambrel-roof, and the gable 
looking westward to the green, 
At the side toward the sunset, with the window on 

its right, 
Stood the London-made piano I am dreaming of 
to-night ! 

Ah me ! how I remember the evening when it came! 
What a cry of eager voices, what a group of cheeks 

in flame. 
When the wondrous box was opened that had come 

from over & 
With it> Bmell of mastic-varnish and its flash of 

ivory keva I 



Then the children .ill grew fretful in the restlessness 

of joy; 
For the- hoy would push his sister, and the Bister 

crowd the hoy, 
Till the father asked for quiet in his -rave paternal 

But the mother hushed the tumult with the words, 

" Now, Mary, play." 

For the dear soul knew that musk was a very sov- 
ereign halm ; 

She had sprinkled it over Sorrow and seen its brow 
grow calm, 

In the days of slender harpsichords with tapping 
tinkling quills, 

Or carolling to her spinet with its thin metallic 

So Mary, the household minstrel, who always Loved 

to please, 
Sat down to the new " Clementi," and Btruck the 

glittering keys. 

Hushed were the children'? voices, and every eye 

grew dim, 
As, floating from lip and finger, arose the " Vesper 


— Catharine, child of a neighbor, curly and rosv- 

I Wedded since, and a widow, — something like ten 
years dead,) 

Hearing a gush of music such as none before, 
Steals from ho- mother's chamber and peeps ;>t the 

open door, 


Just as the " Jubilate " in threaded whisper dies, 
'• ( ►pen it ! open it, lady ! " the little maiden erics, 
(For she thought 'twas a singing creature caged in 

a box she heard,) 
" Open it ! open it, lady ! and let me sec the bird ! " 


ERE ! sweep these foolish leaves away, 
I will not crush my brains to-day ! 
Look ! are the southern curtains drawn ? 
Fetch me a fan, and so begone ! 

Not that, — the palm-tree's rustling leaf 
Brought from a parching coral-reef! 
Its breath is heated ; — I would swing 
The broad gray plumes, — the eagle's wing. 

I hate these roses' feverish blood ! — 
Pluck me a half-blown lily-bud, 
A long-stemmed lily from the lake, 
Cold as a coiling water-snake. 

Rain me sweet odors on the air, 
And wheel me up my Indian chair, 
And spread some book not ovcrwisc 

Flat out before my sleepy 1 

— Who knows it not, — this dead recoil 
Of weary fibres stretched with toil, — 
The pulse that flutters faint and low 
When Summer's Beething breezes blow ' 

34 6 TO J. L. MOTLEY. 

Nature! hare thy loving breast, 
And give thy child one hour of rest, — 
( )ne little hour to lie unseen 
Beneath thy scarf of leafy green ! 

So, curtained by a singing pine, 

Its murmuring voice BhaU blend with mine, 

Till, lost in dreams, my faltering lay 

In sweeter music dies away. 



ES, we knew we must lose him, — though 

friendship may claim 
To blend her green leaves witli the lau- 
rels of fame ; 
Though fondly, at parting, we call him our own. 
'Tie the whisper of love when the bugle has Mown. 

As the rider that rests with the spur on his heel, 
As the guardsman that Bleeps in hifl corselet of 

As the archer that stands with his shaft on the Btring, 
Be BtOOpa from his toil to the garland we bring. 

What pictures yet Blumber unborn in his loom, 
Till their warriors shall breathe and their beautiea 

shall bloom, 
While the tapestrj Lengthens the Life-glowing i\\r> 

Thai caught from OUT BUBSetS tin' Main ol their skies I 

TO J. L. MOTLEY. 347 

In the alcoves of death, in the charnelfl of time, 
Where Hit the gaunt Bpectres of passion and crime, 
There are triumphs untold, there are martyrs 1111- 
BUl ... 

There are heroes yet silent to speak with his tongue ! 

08 hear the proud story which time has bc- 

queathed ! 
From lips that are warm with the freedom they 

breathed ! 
Let him summon its tyrants, and tell us their doom, 
Though he sweep the black past like Van Tromp 

with his l)room ! 

The dream flashes by, for the west-winds awake 
On pampas, on prairie, o'er mountain and lake, 
To bathe the swift bark, like a sea-girdled shrine, 
With incense they stole from the rose and the pine. 

So till a bright cup with the Bunlight that gushed 
When the dead Bummer's jewels were trampled and 

crushed : 
Tin: ikii; Knight of Learning, — the world 

holds him dear, — 
Love blesfl him, Joy crown him, God speed his 

career ! 


348 TO J. R. LOWELL. 



^ ; ARE WELL, for the bark has her breast 
to the tide, 
And the rough arms of Ocean are 
stretched for his bride ; 
The winds from the mountain stream over the bay : 
One clasp of the hand, then away and awaj ! 

I sec the tall mast as it rocks by the shore ; 
The sun is declining, I see it once more ; 
To-day like the blade in a thick- waving field, 
To-morrow the spike on a Highlander's shield. 

Alone, while the cloud pours its treacherous breath, 
With the blue lips all round her whose kisses are 

death ; 
Ah, think not the breeze that is urging her sail 
J las left her unaided to strive with the gale. 

There are hopes that play round her, like fires on 

the mast, 
That will Light the dark hour till its danger has past : 

There are prayers that will plead with the storm 
when it raves, 

And whisper " Be still !" to the turbulent waves. 

Nay, think not that Friendship has called us in vain 
To join the fair ring ere we break it again ; 
There is strength in Its circle, — you Lose the bright 

lint its sisters still chain it, though Bhining alio-. 



T give you one health In the juice of the vine, 
The blood of the vineyard shall mingle with mine ; 
Thus, thus let us drain the last dew-drops of gold, 
As we empty our hearts of the blessings they hold. 

April 29, 1855. 



E will not speak of years to-night, — 
For what have years to bring 

But larger floods of love and light, 
And sweeter songs to sing ? 

We will not drown in wordy praise 
The kindly thoughts that rise ; 

It' Friendship own one tender phrase, 
lie reads it in our eyes. 

TVc need not waste our schoolboy art 
To gild this notch of Time ; — 

Forgive me it" my wayward heart 
Has throbbed in artless rhyme. 

Enough for him the silent grasp 

That knits us hand in hand, 

And he the bracelet's radiant clasp 

That locks our circling band. 

35 o TO J. F. CLARK R 

Strength to his hours of manly toil ! 

Peace to his starlit dreams ! 
Who loves alike the furrowed soil, 

The music-haunted streams ! 

Sweet smiles to keep forever bright 
The sunshine on his lips, 

And faitli that sees the ring of light 
Round nature's last eclipse ! 

February 22, 1859. 



HO is the shepherd sent to lead. 

Through pastures green, the Master's 

slice]) i 

What guileless "Israelite Indeed 

The folded flock mav watch and keep > 

He who with manliest spirit joins 

The heart of gentlest human mould, 
With burning light and girded loins. 

To guide the Hock, or watch the fold ; 

True to all Truth the world denies, 
Not tongue-tied for its gilded sin; 
Not always righl in all men's eyes, 

But faithful to the light within; 


Who asks no meed of earthly fame, 

Who knows do earthly master's call, 
Who hopes for man, through guilt and shame, 

Still answering, "God is over all"; 

Who makes another's grief his own, 
Whose smile lends joy a double cheer ; 

Where lives the saint, if such be known ? — 
Speak softly, — such an one is here! 

O faithful shepherd ! thou hast borne 
The heat and burden of the day; 

Yet, o'er thee, bright with beams unshorn, 
The sun still shows thine onward way. 

To thee our fragrant love we bring, 
In buds that April half displays, 

Sweet first-born angels of the spring, 

( aught in their opening hymn of praise. 

What though our faltering accents fail, 

Our captives know their message well, 
Our words unbreathed their lips exhale, 

And sigh more love than ours can tell. 

April 4, i860. 

35 1 





IS sweet to fight our battles o'er, 
And crown with honest praise 

The gray old chief, who strikes no more 
The blow of better days. 

Before the true and trusted sage 

With willing hearts we bend, 
Vfhvn rears have touched with hallowing age 

Our Master, Guide, and Friend. 

For all his manhood's labor past, 

For love and faith long tried, 
Hisjige is honored to the last, 

have died. 

rhough Btrength and wil 

Bnt when, untamed by toil and strife 

Full in our front he stands, 
The torch of light, the Bhield of life, 

Still lifted in his hands, 

No temple, though its walls resound 
Willi bursts of ringing cheers, 

( an hold the honors thai surround 
Jlis manhood's twice-told rears! 



W. W. SWAIN'. 


EIIOLD — not him we knew ! 
This was the prison which his soul 
looked through, 
Tender, and brave, and true. 

His voice no more is heard ; 
And his dead name — that dear familiar word — 
Lies on our lips unstirred. 

He spake with poet's tongue ; 
laying, for him the minstrel's lyre was strung : 
lie shall not die unsung! 

Grief tried his love, and pain ; 
And the Long bondage of his martyr-chain 
Vexed his sweet soul, — in vain ! 

It felt life's surges break, 
As, girt with stormy seas, his island lake, 
Smiling while tempests wake. 

How can we sorrow more 1 
Grieve nut for him whose heart had gone before 
To that untrodden .-hore ! 

Lo, through its leafy screen, 
A gleam of sunlight on a ring of green, 
Untrodden, half unseen ! 


Here let his body rest, 
Where the calm shadows that his soul loved best 
May slide above his breast. 

Smooth his uncurtained bed ; 
And if some natural tears are softly shed, 
It is not for the dead. 

Fold the green turf aright 
For the long hours before the morning's light, 
And say the last Good Night ! 

And plant a clear white stone 
Close by those mounds which hold his loved, his 
own, — 
Lonely, but not alone. 

Here let him sleeping lie, 
Till Heaven's bright watchers slumber in the sky. 
And Death himself shall die ! 

Naushon, September 22, 1858. 


E was all sunshine ; in his face 

The very soul of .sweetness shone; 
Fairest and gentlest of his race ; 

Tsone like him we can call our own 


Something there was of one that died 
In her fresh spring-time long ago, 

Our first dear Mary, angel-eyed, 

Whose smile it was a bliss to know. 

Something of her whose love imparts 
Such radiance to her day's decline, 

We feel its twilight in our hearts 
Bright as the earliest morning-shine. 

Yet richer strains our eye could trace 

That made our plainer mould more fair, 
That curved the lip with happier grace, 
- That waved the soft and silken hair. 

Dust unto dust ! the lips are still 
That only spoke to cheer and bless ; 

The folded hands lie white and chill 
Unclasped from sorrow's last caress. 

Leave him in peace ; he will not heed 
These idle tears we vainly pour, 

Give back to earth the fading weed 
Of mortal shape his spirit wore. 

" Shall I not weep my heartstrings torn, 
My flower of love that falls half blown, 

My youth uncrowned, my life forlorn, 
A thorny path to walk alone 1 " 

{ I Mary ! one who bore thy name, 

Whose Friend and Master was divine, 
Sat waiting silent till He canic, 

Bowed down iii speechless grief like thine. 

35 6 MARTHA. 

" Where have ye laid him ? " " Come," they say, 
Pointing to where the loved one slept ; 

Weeping, the sister led the way, — 
And, seeing Mary, "Jesus wept." 

He weeps with thee, with all that mourn, 
And He shall wipe thy streaming eyes 

Who knew all sorrows, woman-born, — 
Trust in his word ; thy dead shall rise ! 

April 15, i860. 


DIED JANUARY 7, l86l. 


Toll the bell ! toll the bell ! 
Her weary hands their labor cease ; 
Goodnight, poor Martha, — sleep in peace ! 
Toll the bell-! 

Sexton! Martha's dead and gone : 
Toll the bell ! toll the bell ! 
For many a year has Martha said, 
" I 'm old and poor, — would I were dead ! 
Toll the bell ! 

Sexton ! Martha 's dead and gone ; 
Toll the bell ! toll the bell ! 
She'll bring no more, by day or night, 
Her basket full of linen white. 
Toll the bell ! 


Sexton ! Martha 's dead and gone ; 

Toll the bell ! toll the bell ! . 
'T is fitting she should lie below 
A pure white sheet of drifted snow. 
Toll the bell ! 

Sexton ! Martha 's dead and gone ; 
Toll the bell ! toll the bell ! 
Sleep, Martha, sleep, to wake in light, 
Where all the robes are stainless white. 
Toll the bell ! 



S I look from the isle, o'er its billows of 
To the billows of foam-erested blue, 
Yon bark, that alar in the distance is seen, 
Half dreaming, my eves will pursue : 
Now dark in the shadow, she scatters the spray 

As the chaff in the stroke of the flail ; 
Now white as the sea-gull, she flies on her way, 
The sun gleaming bright on her sail. 

Yet her pilot is thinking of dangers to shun, — 

Of breakers that whiten and roar ; 
How little he cares, if in shadow or sun 

They Bee him who gaze from the >horc ! 
He looks to the bracoii that looms from the reef, 

To the rock that is under his lee. 
As be drifts on the blast, like a wind-wafted leaf, 

O'er the quit's of the desolate sea. 


Thus drifting afar to the dim-vaulted eaves 

Where, life and its ventures are laid, 
The dreamers who gaze while we battle the waves 

May see us in sunshine or shade ; 
Yet true to our course, though our shadow grow dark. 

We '11 trim our broad sail as before, 
And stand by the rudder that governs the bark, 

Nor ask how we look from the shore ! 


HIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets 
Sails the unshadowed main, — 
The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare, 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their stream- 
ing hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 

Wrecked IS the ship of pearl ! 

And every chambered cell, 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies revealed, — 
lis Irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 

That spread his lustrous coil ; 


Still, as the spiral grew, 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new, 
Stole with soft step its shilling archway through, 

Built up its idle door, 
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old 
no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 

Child of the wandering sea, 

Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 

While on mine ear it rings, 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice 
that sings : — 

Build thee more stately mansions, my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll ! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 

Till thou at length art free, 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea ! 


S Life's unending column pours, 
Two marshalled hosts are seen,— 
Two armies on the trampled Bhores 

That Death flows black between. 


One marches to the dram-beat's roll, 
The wide-mouthed clarion's bray, 

And hears upon a crimson scroll, 
" Our glory is to slay." 

One moves in silence hy the stream, 

With sad, yet watchful eyes, 
Calm as the patient planet's gleam 

That walks the clouded skies. 

Along its front no sabres shine, 
No blood-red pennons wave ; 

Its banner bears the single line, 
" Our duty is to save." 

For those no death-bed's lingering shade 
At Honor's trumpet-call, 

With knitted brow and lifted blade 
In Glory's arms they fall. 

For these no clashing falchions bright, 

No stirring battle-cry; 
The bloodless stabber calls by night, — 

Bach answers, " Here am I !" 

For those the sculptor's laurelled bust, 

The builder's marble pil< 
The anthems pealing o'er their dust 
Through long cathedral aisles. 

For these the blossom-sprinkled turf 

That Hoods the loiieh graves 
When Spring rolls in her sea-green surf 

In flowery-foaming waves. 


Two paths lead upward from below, 
And angels wait above, 

Who count each burning life-drop's flow, 
Each Calling tear of Love. 

Though from the Hero's bleeding breast 

Her pulses Freedom drew, 
Though the white lilies in her erest 

Sprang from that scarlet dew, — 

While Valor's haughty champions wait 

Till all their scars are shown, 
Love walks unchallenged through the gate, 

To sit beside the Throne ! 



HAT makes the Healing Art divine ? 

The bitter drug we buy and sell, 
The brands that scorch, the blade- that 

The scars we leave, the "cures" we tell ! 

Are these thy glories, holiest Art, — 
The trophic.- that adorn thee hot, — 

Or but thy triumph's meanest part, — 

Where mortal weakness stands confessed ! 


We take the arms that Heaven supplies 
For Life's long battle with Disease, 

Taught by our various need to prize 
Our frailest weapons, even these. 

But ah ! when Science drops her shield — 
Its peaceful shelter proved in vain — 

And 1 tail's her snow-white arm to wield 
The sad, stem ministry of pain ; 

When shuddering o'er the fount of life, 
She folds her heaven-anointed wings, 
To lift unmoved the glittering knife 

That searches all its crimson springs ; 

When, faithful to her ancient lore, 
She thrusts aside her fragrant balm 

For blistering juice, or cankering ore, 
And tames them till they cure or calm ; 

When in her gracious hand are seen 
The dregs and scum of earth and seas, 

Her kindness counting all things clean 
That lend the sighing sufferer ease : 

Though on the field that Death lias won, 
She saves Borne Btragglers in retreal ; — 

These Bingle acts of mercy done 
Are but confessions of defeat. 

What though our tempered poisons save 

Sonic wrecks of life from aches and ails: 
Those -rand spccilics Nature gave 

Were never poised by weights <>r scales I 

M USA. 363 

God lent his creatures light and air, 

And water.- open to the skies ; 
Man locks him in a stifling lair, 

And wonders why his brother dies ! 

In vain our pitying tears are shed, 
In vain we rear the sheltering pile 

Where Art weeds out from bed to bed 
The plagues we planted by the mile ! 

Be that the glory of the past ; 

With these our sacred toils begin : 
So flies in tatters from its mast 

The yellow flag of sloth and sin, 

And lo ! the starry folds reveal 

The blazoned truth we hold so dear : 

To guard is better than to heal, — 
The shield is nobler than the spear ! 


MY lost beauty ! — hast thou folded quite 
Thy wings of morning light 

;.■ VvV / Beyond those iron gates 

Spi Where Life crowds hurrying to the hag- 
gard Fates, 
And Age upon his nionnd of ashes waits 

To chill our fiery dreams. 
Hot from the heart of youth plunged in his icy 

364 MUBAm 

Leave me not fading in these weeds of care, 

Whose flowers are silvered hair! 

Have I not loved thee long, 
Though my young lips have often done thee wrong, 
And vexed thy heaven-tuned ear with careless song ! 

Ah, wilt thou yet return, 
Bearing thy rose-hued torch, and bid thine altar 
burn ! 

Come to me! — I will flood thy silent shrine 

"With my soul's sacred wine, 

And heap thy marble floors 
As the wild spice-trees waste their fragrant stores, 
In leafy islands walled with madrepores 

And lapped in Orient seas, 
When all their feathery palms toss, plume-like, in 
the breeze. 

Come to me ! — thou shalt feed on honeyed word.-, 

Sweeter than song of birds; — 

No wailing bulbul's throat, 
No melting dulcimer's melodious note. 
When o'er the midnight wave its murmurs float, 

Thy ravished sense might soothe 

With flow so liquid-soft, with strain so velvet- 

Thou shalt be decked with jewels, like a queen, 
Sought in those bowers of green 

Where loop the clustered , * ines 

And the close-clinging dulcamara* twines, — 
Pure pearls of Maydew where the moonlighl shines, 

• The *« bitter-sweet n of New England Ki the Celastnu 
tcandt ns, — " liourreau ties arbres " of tin- Canadian French. 

MUSA. 365 

And Summer's fruited gems, 

And rural pendants shorn from Autumn's berried 

Sit by mc drifting on the sleepy waves, — 
( )r stretched by grass-grown graves, 
Whose gray, high-shouldered stones, 

Carved with old names Life's time-worn roll disowns. 

Lean, lichen-spotted, o'er the crumbled hones 
Still slumbering where they lay 

While the sad Pilgrim watched to scare the wolf 

Spread o'er my conch thy visionary wing! 

Still let me dream and sing, — 

Dream of that winding shore 
Where Bcarlet cardinals bloom — for me no more, — 
The stream with heaven beneath its liquid floor, 

And clustering nenuphars 
Sprinkling its mirrored blue like golden-chaliced 
stars ! 

Come while their halms the linden-blossoms shed ! — 

Come while the rose is red, — 

While blue-eyed Summer smiles 
On the green ripples round yon sunken piles 
Washed by the moon-wave warm from Indian isles. 

And on the sultry air 
The chestnuts Bpread their palms like holy men in 
prayer ! 

O for thy burning lips to fire my brain 
With thrills of wild, Bweet pain ! — 

On life's autumnal blast, 


Like shrivelled leaves, youth's passion-flowers arc 
cast, — 

Onee loving thee, we love thee to the last ! — 
Behold thy new-decked shrine, 

And hear once more the voice that breathed " For- 
ever thine ! " 


E count the broken lyres that rest 

Where the sweet wailing singers slum- 
But o'er their silent sister's breast 
The wild-flowers who will stoop to number? 
A few can touch the magic string. 

And noisy Fame is proud to win them : — 
Alas for those that never Bing, 

But die with all their music in them ! 

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone 

Whose son-- has told their beans' sad story, — 
Weep lor the voiceless, who have known 

The cross without the crown of g lory ! 
Not where Lencadian breezes sweep 

O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, 

But where the glistening night-dews weep 
On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. 

O hearts that break and give no BigD 

Save whitening lip and fading tresses, 

Till Death pours out his cordial Wine 

Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses, — 


If ringing breath or echoing chord 
To every hidden pang were given, 

What endless melodies were poured, 
As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven ! 


IT, here it is ! the sliding rail 

That marks the old rcmemhered spot,- 
The gap that struck our schoolboy trail, — 
The crooked path across the lot. 

It left the road by school and church, 
A pencilled shadow, nothing more, 

That parted from the silver birch 
And ended at the farm-house door. 

No line or compass traced its plan ; 

With frequent bends to left or right, 
In aimless, wayward curves it ran, 

But always kept the door in sight. 

The gabled porch, with woodbine green, — 

The broken millstone at the sill, — 
Though many a rood might Btretch between, 

The truant child could see them still. 

No rocks across the pathway lie, — 

No fallen trunk is o'er it thrown, — 
And yet it wind-, we know not why. 
And turns as if for tree or -tunc. 


Perhaps some lover trod the way 

With shaking knees and Leaping heart, 

And bo it often runs astray 

With sinuous sweep or sudden start. 

Or one, perchance, with clouded brain 
From some unholy banquet reeled, — 

And since, our devious steps maintain 
His track across the trodden field. 

Nay, deem not thus, — no earthborn will 
Could ever trace a faultless line ; 

Our truest steps arc human still, — 
To walk unswerving were divine ! 

Truants from love, we dream of wrath ; — 

O, rather let us trust the more ! 
Through all the wanderings of the path, 

Wc still can see our Father's door ! 


■ ■ 

EHOLD the rocky wall 

That down its Bloping sides 

Pours the swift min-drops, blending, aa 
they fall, 
In rushincr river-tides ! 

Y<>n Btream, whose sources run 
Turned by a pebble's edge, 
Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun 

Through the cleft lunuutaiu-Iedu'f . 


The slender rill had strayed, 
Bat for the slanting stone, 
To evening's ocean, with the tangled braid 
Of foam-flecked Oregon. 

So from the heights of Will 
Life's parting stream descends, 
And, as a moment turns its slender rill, 
Each widening torrent bends, — 

From the same cradled side, 
•Fnmi the same mother's knee, — 
One to long darkness and the frozen tide, 
One to the Peaceful Sea ! 


E Bleeps not here ; in hope and prayer 

His wandering hock had gone before, 
But lie, the shepherd, might not share 
^J Their sorrows on the wintry shore. 

Before the Speedwell's anchor swung, 

Ere yet the Mayflower's sail was Bpread, 
While round his feet the Pilgrims clung, 

The pastor .-pake, and thus he said: — 

'• Men, brethren. Bisters, children dear! 
1 rod calls you hence from over sea; 

Ye may not build by llacrleni Meer, 
Nor yet along the Xuyder-Zee. 


" Ye go to bear the saving word 

* To tribes unnamed and shores untrod : 
Heed well the lessons ye have heard 
From those old teachers taught of God. 

" Yet think not unto them was lent 
All light for all the coming days, 

And Heaven's eternal wisdom spent 
In making straight the ancient ways : 

" The living fountain overflows 

For every flock, for every lamb, ■ 

Nor heeds, though angry creeds oppose 
With Luther's dike or Calvin's dam." 

He spake : with lingering, long embrace, 
With tears of love and partings fond, 

They floated down the creeping Maas, 
Along the isle of Ysselmond. 

They passed the frowning towers of Briel, 
The « Hook of Holland's " shelf of Band, 

And grated soon with lifting keel 
The sullen shores of Fatherland. 

No home for these ! — too well they knew 
The mitred king behind the throne; — 
The sails were set, the pennons llew, 

Ami westward ho ! for worlds unknown. 

— And the8€ were they who gave as birth, 
The Pilgrims of the Bnnsei wave, 

Who won for ns this virgin earth, 
And freedom with the soil they gave. 


The pastor slumbers by the Rhine, — 
In alien earth the exiles lie, — 

Their nameless mavis our holiest shrine, 
His words our noblest battle-cry ! 

Still cry them, and the world shall hear, 
Ye dwellers by the storm-swept sea ! 

Ye luive not built hy Haerlem Meer, 
Nor on the land-loeked Zuyder-Zee ! 




O fear lest praise should make us proud ! 
We know how cheaply that is Avon; 
The idle homage of the erowd 
Is proof of tasks as idly done. 

A surfaee-smile may pay the toil 

That follows still the conquering Right, 

With soft, white hands to dress the spoil 
That sun-hrowned valor clutched in fight. 

Sin-- the sweet song of other days, 

Serenely placid, safely true, 
And <>Yr the present's parching ways 

The rerse distils like evening dew. 

lint speak in words of living power, — 
They fad like drops of scalding rain 
That plashed before the burning Bhower 

Swept o'er the cities of the plain! 



Then scowling Hate turns deadly pale, — 
Then Passion's half-coiled adders spring 

And, smitten through their Leprous mail, 
Strike right and left in hope to sting. 

If thou, unmoved by poisoning wrath, 
Thy feet on earth, thy heart above, 
Canst walk in peace thy kingly path, 

Unchanged in trust, unchilled in love, - 

Too kind for bitter words to grieve, 
Too firm for clamor to dismay, 

When Faith forbids thee to believe, 
And Meekness calls to disobey, — 

Ah, then beware of mortal pride ! 

The smiling pride that calmly scorns 
Those foolish fingers, crimson dyed 

In laboring on thy crown of thorns ! 


MAY not rightly call thy name, — 

Alas ! thy forehead never knew 
The kiss that happier children claim, 

Nor glistened with baptismal dew. 

Daughter of want and wrong and woe, 

I saw thee with thy sister-band, 
Snatched from the whirlpool's narrowing flow 

T»\ Mercy's Btrong yet trembling hand. 

AVIS. 373 

— " Avis ! " — With Saxon eye and cheek, 
At once a woman ami a child, 

The Baint uncrowned I came to seek 

Drew near to greet us, — spoke, and smiled. 

God gave that sweet sad smile she wore 
All wrong to shame, all souls to win, — 

A heavenly sunbeam sent before 

Her footsteps through a world of sin. 

— " And who is Avis ? " — Hear the tale 
The calm-voiced matrons gravely tell, — 

The story known through all the vale 
Where Avis and her sisters dwell. 

With the lost children running wild, 
Strayed from the hand of human care, 

They find one little refuse child 
Left helpless in its poisoned lair. 

The primal mark is on her face, — 
The chattel-Stamp, — the pariah-stain 

That follows still her hunted race, — 
The curse without the crime of Cain. 

How shall our smooth-turned phrase relate 

The little Buffering outcast's ail i 
X«>t Lazarus at the rich man's gate 

So turned the rose-wreathed revellers pale. 

Ah, veil the living death from -i-lit 
That wounds our beauty-loving eye ! 

The children turn in selfish fright, 
The white-lipped uurses hurry by. 



Take her, dread Angel ! Break in love 
This bruised reed and make it thine ! — 

No voice descended from above, 

But Avis answered, " She is mine." 

The task that dainty menials spurn 

The fair young- girl has made her own; 

Her heart shall teach, her hand shall learn 
The toils, the duties yet unknown. 

So Love and Death in lingering strife 
Stand face to face from day to day, 

Still battling for the spoil of Life 
While the slow seasons creep away. 

Love conquers Death ; the prize is won ; 

See to her joyous bosom pressed 
The dusky daughter of the sun, — 

The bronze against the marble breast ! 

Her task is done ; no voice divine 

Has crowned her deeds with saintly fame. 

No eye can see the anreole shine 

That rings her brow with heavenly flame. 

Yet what has holy page more sweet, 
Or what had woman's love more lair, 

When Mary clasped her Saviour's feel 
With Glowing eyes and streaming hair ! 

Meek- child of sorrow, walk unknown, 
The Angel of thai earthly throng, 

And let thine image live alone 
To hallow this unstudied song ! 




PRAY thee by the soul of her that bore 

By thine own sister's spirit I implore thee, 
Deal gently with the leaves that lie before 

thee ! 

For Iris had no mother to infold her, 

Nor ever leaned upon a sister's shoulder, 

Telling the twilight thoughts that Nature told her. 

She had not learned the mystery of awaking 
Those ehorded keys that soothe a sorrow's aehing, 
Giving the dumb heart voice, that else were breaking. 

Yet lived, wrought, suffered. Lo, the pictured token ! 
Why should her Meeting day-dreams fade unspoken, 
Like daffodils that die with sheaths unbroken ? 

She knew not love, yet lived in maiden fancies, — 
Walked simply clad, a queen of high romances, 
And talked strange tongues with angels in her trances. 

Twin-souh'd Bhe seemed, a twofold nature wearing, — 
Sometimes a flashing falcon in her daring, 

Then a poor inateless dove that droops despairing. 

Questioning all things : Why her Lord had sent her? 
What jvere these torturing gifts, and wherefore lent 

her i 
Scornful as spirit fallen, its own tormentor. 


And then all tears and anguish : Queen of Heaven, 
Sweet Saints, and Thou by mortal sorrows riven, 
Save me ! O, save me ! Shall I die forgiven i 

And then Ah, God ! But nay, it little mat- 
ters : 
Look at the wasted seeds that autumn scatter-, 
The myriad germs that Nature shapes and .shatters ! 

If she had Well ! She longed, and knew not 

Had the world nothing she might live to care for ! 
No second self to say her evening prayer for ! 

She knew r the marble shapes that set men dreaming, 
Yet with her shoulders bare and tresses streaming 
Showed not unlovely to her simple seeming. 

Vain? Let it be so ! Nature was her teacher. 
What if a lonely and onsistered creature 
Loved her own harmless gift of pleasing feature. 

Saying, ansaddened, — This shall soon be faded, 
And donble-lmed the Bhining tresses braided. 
And all the Bunlight of the morning shaded ! 

This her poor book is full of saddest follies, 

Of tearful smiles and laughing melancholies, 

With summer roses twined and wintry hollies. 

in the Btrange crossing of uncertain chances. 
Somewhere, beneath Borne maiden's tear-dimmed 

May fall her little book of dreams and fancies. 



Sweet sister ! Iris, who shall never name thee, 
Trembling for tear her open heart may shame thee, 
Speaka from this vision-haunted page to claim thee. 

Spare her, I pray thee ! If the maid is sleeping, 
Peace with her! she lias had her hour of weeping. 
No more ! She leaves her memory in thy keeping. 


ER hands are cold ; her face is white ; 
No more her pulses eome and go ; 
Her eyes are shut to life and light ; — 
Fold the white vesture, snow on snow, 
And lay her where the violets blow. 

But not beneath a graven stone, 
To plead for tears with alien eyes ; 

A slender cross of wood alone 

Shall say, that here a maiden lies 
In peace beneath the peaceful skies. 

And gray old trees of hugest limb 

Shall wheel their circling shadows round 

To make the scorching sunlight dim 

That drinks the greenness from the ground, 
Ami drop their dead leaves on her mound. 

When o'er their boughs the squirrel- run, 

Ami through their leaves the robins call, 
And, ripening in the autumn sun, 


The acorns and the cliestnnts fall, 
Doubt not that she will heed them all. 

Tor her the morning choir shall sing 
Its matins from the branches high, 

And every minstrel-voice of Spring, 
That trills beneath the April Bky, 
Shall greet her with its earliest cry. 

When, turning round their dial-track, 
Eastward the lengthening shadows pass, 

Her little mourners, clad in black, 

The crickets, sliding through the grass, 
Shall pipe for her an evening mass* 

At last the rootlets of the trees 

Shall find the prison where she lies, 

And bear the buried dust they seize 
In leaves and blossoms to the Bkies. 
So may the soul that warmed it rise ! 

If any, born of kindlier blood, 

Should ask, What maiden lies below '. 

Say only this : A tender bud, 

That tried to blossom in the snow, 
Lies withered where the violets blow. 


OT charity we ask, 

Nor yel tli\ gifl ; 

Please thy light fancy with the easj task 
( >nlv to look and cho< 



The little-heeded toy 
That wins thy treasured gold 
May be the dearest memory, holiest joy, 

Of coming years untold. 

Heaven rains on every heart, 
But there its showers divide, 
The drops of mercy choosing as they part 
The dark or glowing side. 

One kindly deed may turn 
The fountain of thy soul 
To love's sweet day-star, that shall o'er thee burn 
Long as its currents roll ! 

The pleasures thou hast planned, — 
Where shall their memory he 
When the white angel with the freezing hand 
Shall sit and watch by thee \ 

Living, thou dost not live, 
If mercy's Bpring run dry; 
What Heaven has lent thee wilt thou freely give, 
Dying, thou shalt not die ! 

He promised even so ! 
To thee I lis lips repeat, — 
Behold, the tears that southed thy sister's woe 
Have washed thy Master's feet ! 

March zo, 1859. 



OT in the world of light alone, 
Where God has built his blazing throne, 
Nor yet alone in earth below, 
3] With belted seas that come and go, 
And endless isles of sunlit green, 
Is all thy Maker's glory seen : 
Look in upon thy wondrous frame, — 
Eternal wisdom still the same ! 

The smooth, soft air with pulse-like wavei 
Elows murmuring through its hidden caves, 
Whose streams of brightening purple rash, 
Fired with a new and livelier blush, 
While all their burden of decay 
The ebbing current steals away. 
And red with Nature's flame they Star! 
From the warm fountains of the heart. 

No rest that throbbing slave may ask, 
Forever quivering o'er his task, 

While far and wide a crimson jet 
Leaps forth to till the woven net 

Which in unnumbered crossing tides 
The flood <>t" burning life dii i<les, 
Then, kindling each decaying part, 
Creeps hack to find the throbbing heart. 

Bui warmed with that unchanging flan:" 

Behold the outward moving frame, 

\\> li\ in-- marbles jointed Btrong 

With glistening hand and silvciw thong, 


And linked to reason's guiding reins 
By myriad rings in trembling chains, 
Each graven with the threaded zone 
Which claims it as the master's own. 

See how yon beam of seeming white 
la braided out of seven-hned light, 
Yet in those lucid globes no ray 
By any chance shall break astray. 
Hark how the rolling surge of sound, 
Arches and spirals circling round, 
Wakes the hushed spirit through thine ear 
With music it is heaven to hear. 

Then mark the cloven sphere that holds 
All thought in its mysterious folds, 
That feels sensation's faintest thrill, 
And Hashes forth the sovereign will; 
Think on the stormy world that dwells 
Locked in its dim and clustering cells ! 
The lightning gleams of power it sheds 
Along its hollow glassy threads ! 

O Father ! grant thy love divine 
To make these mystic temples thine ! 
When wasting age and wearying strife 
Have Bapped the leaning walls of life, 
Wln-n darkness gathers over all, 
And th»- Last tottering pillars fall, 
Take the poor dust thy mercy warms, 
And mould it into heavenly forms ! 

3 82 



LOVE Divine, that stooped to share 
Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear, 

On Thee we cast each earth-born care, 
We smile at pain while Thou art near! 

Though long the weary way we tread, 
And sorrow crown each Lingering year, 

No path we shun, no darkness dread, 

Our hearts still whispering, Thou art near! 

When drooping pleasure turns to grief, 

And trembling faith is changed t<> fear, 
The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf, 

Shall softly tell us, Thou art near ! 

On Thee we fling our burdening woe, 

( ) Love Divine, forever dear, 
Content to Buffer while we know. 

Living and dying, Thou art near ! 


OlM) of all being] throned afar, 
Thy glory flames from bud and Btar; 
( tenure and soul of every Bphere, 

Yet to each loving heart how neiir! 


Sun of our life, thy quickening ray 
Shed- on our path the glow of day ; 
Star of our hope, thy softened light 

Cheers the long- watches of the night. 

Our midnight is thy smile withdrawn ; 
Our noontide is thy gracious dawn; 
Our rainbow arch thy mercy's Bign; 

All, save the clouds of sin, are thine ! 

Lord of all life, below, above, 

Whose light is truth, whose warmth is love, 

Before thy ever-blazing throne 

We a.>k no lustre of our own. 

Grant us thy truth to make us free, 
And kindling hearts that burn for thee, 
Till all thy living altars claim 
One holy light, one heavenly flame ! 



I] Bing "Our Country's" Bong to-night 

With Baddened voice and eye ; 
Her banner droops in clouded light 
Beneath the wintry sky. 
We '11 pledge her once in golden wine 

Before her stars have Bet : 
Though dim one reddening orb may -bine, 
We haw a Country yet. 


f T were vain to Bigh o'er errors past, 

The fault of sires or sons ; 
Our soldier heard the threatening blast, 

And spiked his useless guns ; 
He saw the star-wreathed ensign fall, 

By mad invaders torn ; 
But saw it from the bastioned wall 

That laughed their rage to scorn ! 

What though their angry cry is flung 

Across the howling wave, — 
They smite the air with idle tongue 

The gathering storm who brave ; 
Enough of speech ! the trumpet rings ; 

Be silent, patient, calm, — 
God help them if the tempest swings 

The pine against the palm ! 

Our toilsome years have made us tame ; 

Our strength has slept unfelt ; 
The furnace-tire is slow to flame 

That bids our ploughshares melt ; 
'T is hard to Lose the bread they win 

In spite of Nature's frowns, — 
To drop the iron thread- we spin 

That weave our web oftowns, 

To see the rusting turbines stand 
Before the emptied flumes, 

To fold the anus that flood the laud 
With rivers from their looms, — 

Bui harder still for those who learn 
The truth forgot so long ; 

When once their Blumbering passions bum, 
The peaceful are the Btrong ! 

BR THER JOXA TIL 1 A r ' S LA MENT. 3 8 5 

The Lord have mercy on the weak, 

Ami calm their frenzied ire, 
And save our brothers ere they shriek, 

•• We played with Northern fire!" 
The eagle hold his mountain height, — 

The tiger pace his den ! 
Give all their country, each his right ! 

God keep us all ! Amen ! 


|^gR<%,v.v 'HE has L r one, — she has left* us in passion 
and pride, — 
Our stormy-browed sister, so long* at our 
side ! 
She has torn her own star from our firmament's 

And turned on her brother the face of a foe ! 

<> Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, 
We can never forget that our hearts have been one, — 
Our foreheads both Bprinkled in Liberty's name, 
From tin- fountain of blood with the finger of flame ! 


Yon were always too ready to fire at a touch ; 

lint we Baid, "She is hasty, — she does not mean 

We have scowled, when you uttered some turbu- 
lent tin-cat ; 

But Friendship still whispered, "Forgive and forgel \" 

2 5 


Has our love all died out? Hare its altars grown cold ! 
J las the curse come at last which the fathers foretold ( 
Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chain 
Thar her petulant children would sever in Fain. 

They may fight till the buzzards arc gorged with 

their spoil, 
Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the Boil, 
Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their 

And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves : 

In vain is the strife ! When its fury is past, 
Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last, 
As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snow 
Koll mingled in peace through the valleys below. 

Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky: 

Man breaks not the medal, when God cuts the die! 

Though darkened with sulphur, though clown with 

The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal! 

( ) ( iaroline, ( laroline, child of the sun, 
There are battles with Fate thai can never be won ! 
The Btar-flowering banner musl never be furled, 
For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world! 

Go, then, our rash sister ! afar ami aloof, 
Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof; 
.But w hen your heart aches and \ our feet ha\ e grown 

Remember the pathway that leads to our door! 

March z^, i86i t 



Aprils 27, 1861. 

IGHTY years have passed, and more, 

Since under the brave old tree 
Our fathers gathered in arms, and swore 
They would follow the sign their banners 
And fight till the land was free. 

Half of their work was done, 

Half is left to do, — 
Cambridge, and Concord, and Lexington ! 
When the battle is fought and won, 

What shall be told of you ? 

Hark ! — 't is the south-wind moans, — 
AVI 10 are the martyrs down? 
Ah, the marrow was true in your children's bones 

That sprinkled with blood the cursed stones 
Of the murder-haunted town ! 

What if the storm-clouds blow 1 

What if the green leaves fall '. 
Better the crashing tempest's throe 
Than the army of worms that gnawed below ; 

Trample them one and all ! 

Then, when the battle is Avon, 
And the land from traitor- free, 

Our children shall tell of the strife begun 

When Liberty's Becond April sun 

Was bright on our brave old tree ! 


OUR fathers' land.* 

OD bless our Fathers 4 Land ! 

Keep Ikt in heart and hand 
One with our own ! 

From all her foes defend, 
Be her brave People's Friend, 
On all her realms descend, 

Protect her Throne ! 

Father, with loving care 
Guard Thou her kingdom's Heir, 
Guide all his ways : 

Thine arm his shelter be, 
From him by land and ><a 
Bid storm and danger lice, 
Prolong his day- ! 

Lord, let War's tempest cease. 
Fold the whole Earth in peace 

Dnder thy wings ' 
Make all Thy nations one, 

All hearts beneath the sun, 
Till Thou shalt reign alone, 
Great King of kings ! 

* Sang in unison by twelve hundred children of the 
public schools, .-if the visit of the Prince of Wales to Boston, 
October 18, i860. Air, " <;<><! eare the Queen." 



AND where the banners wave last in the 
Blazoned with star-clusters, many in one, 
Floating o'er prairie and mountain and 
sea ; 
Hark ! 't is the voice of thy children to thee ! 

Here at thine altar our vows we renew 
Still in thy cause to he loyal and true, — 
True to thy flag on the field and the wave, 
Living to honor it, dying to save ! 

Mother of heroes ! if perfidy's blight 
Fall on a star in thy garland of light, 
Sound but one bugle-blast ! Lo ! at the sign 
Armies all panoplied wheel into line ! 

Hope of the world ! thou hast broken its chains, — 
Wear thy bright arms while a tyrant remains, 
Stand for the right till the nations shall own 
Freedom their sovereign, with Law for her throne ! 

Freedom ! sweet Freedom ! our voices resound. 
Queen by ( tod's blessing, nnsceptred, uncrowned ! 
Freedom, sweet Freedom, our pulses repeat, 

Warm with her life-blood, as long as they beat ! 

Fold the broad banner-stripes over her breast, — 
Crown her with star-jewels Queen of the West ! 
Earth for her heritage, (;<><! for her friend, 

She shall reign over us, world without cud ! 



ARMY imi\. 

"Old Hundred: 

LO"RD of Hosts ! Almighty King ! 

Behold the sacrifice we bring! 

To every arm Thy Btrength impart, 

Thy spirit shed through every la-art ! 

Wake in our breasts the living fires, 
The holy faith that warmed onr sir 
Thy hand hath made our Nation free ; 
To die for her is serving Thee. 

Be Thou a pillared flame to show 
The midnight snare, the silent foe ; 
And when the battle thunders loud, 
JS till guide us in its moving cloud. 

God of all Nations! Sovereign Lord! 
In Thy dread name Ave draw the BWOrd, 
We lift the Btarry flag on high 

That lills with li^ht our storm? >kv. 

From treason's rent, from murder's stain, 
( ruard Thou its folds till Peace shall reign,— 
Till fort and field, till Bhore and sea, 
Join our loud anthem, Praise to Thee ! 




ii<^(jiATHER of Mercies, Heavenly Friend, 
We seek Thy gracious throne ; 
^J^ To Thee our faltering prayers ascend, 
^ JV Our fainting hearts are known ! 

From 1 (lasts that chill, from suns that smite, 

From every plague that harms ; 
In camp and march, in siege and fight, 

Protect our men-at-arms! 

Though from our darkened lives they take 
What makes our life most dear, 

We yield them for their country's sake 
With no relenting tear. 

Our blood their flowing veins will shed, 
Their wounds our breasts will share j 

O, save us from the woes we dread, 
Or grant us strength to hear ! 

Let each unhallowed cause that brings 
The stem destroyer c» 

T flaming angel fold his wings, 
And Berapha whisper Peace ! 

Thine are the sceptre and the sword, 
Stretch forth Thy mighty hand, — 

Reign Thou our kingless nation'.- Lord, 
Kule Thou our throneless land ! 




HAT flower is tliis that greets the morn, 
Its hues from Heaven so freshly bora ! 
With burning star and flaming band 
It kindles all the sunset land : 
() tell as what its name may be, — 
Is this the Flower of Liberty ! 
It is the banner of the free, 
The starry Flower ol* Liberty ! 

In savage Nature's far abode 

Its tender seed our lathers BOWed J 

The Btorm-winds rocked its swelling hud, 
[ts opening Leaves were Btreaked with blood, 

Till lo ! earth's tyrants shook to see 
The full-blown Flower of Liberty ! 

Then hail the banner of the free, 

The Btarry Flower of Liberty ! 

Behold its streaming rays unite. 

One mingling Hood of braided Light, — 

The red that fires the Southern rose, 

With BpOtleSS white from Northern -now-. 

And, spangled o'er its azure, & 
The Bister Stars of Libert} ! 

Then hail the banner of the free, 

The Btarry Flower of Liberty ! 

The blades of heroes fence it round, 

Where'er it BpringS 18 holy -round ; 
From tower and dome its -lories spread ; 

It waves where lonely sentries tread ; 


Tr makes the land as ocean free, 
And plants an empire on the sea ! 
Then hail the banner of the free, 
The starry Flower of Liberty! 

Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom's flower. 
Shall ever float on dome and tower, 
To all their heavenly colors true, 
In blackening frost or crimson dew, — 
And Bod love ns as we love thee, 
Thrice holy Flower of Liberty ! 
Then hail the banner of the free, 
The starr v Flower of Liberty ! 




OW, while our soldiers arc fighting our 
Each at his post to do all that lie 

Down among rebels and contraband chattel 
What are yon doing, my sweet little man ? 

All the brave boys -under canvas arc Bleeping, 

All of them pressing to march with the van, 
Far from the home where their sweethearts arc 

What are you waiting for, sweet little man 1 

394 rin ' : SWEET LITTLE MAN. 

You with the terrible warlike moustaches, 

Fit for a colonel or chief of a clan, 
You with the waist made for sword-belts and 

Where arc your shoulder-straps, sweet little 

man ! 

Bring him the buttonlesa garment of woman! 

Cover his face lest it freckle and tan : 
Muster the Apron-string Guards on the Common, 

That is the corps for the sweet little man ! 

Give him for escort a file of young miss 

Each of them armed with a deadly rattan ; 

They shall defend him from Laughter and hisses. 
Aimed by low hoys at the sweet little man. 

All the fair maidens about him shall cluster, 
Pluck the white leathers from bonnet and fan. 

Make him a plume like a turkey-wing duster, — 
That is the crest for the sweet little man ! 

(), hut the Apron-string Guards are the fellows I 
Drilling cadi day Bince our troubles began, — 

"Handle your walking-sticks ! u "Shoulder um- 
brellas ! " 
That is the Btyle for the sweet little man. 

Save we a nation to save ' In the first place 
Saving ourselves is the sensible plan, — 

Surely the Bpot where there 's Bhooting 's the worst 
Where 1 can Btand, Bays the Bweel Little man. 


Catch mc confiding my person with Btrangers ! 

Think how the cowardly Bull-Runners ran ! 
In the brigade of the Stay-at-home Rangers 
Marches my corps, says the sweet little man. 

i was the stuff of the Malakoff-takers, 
Such were the soldiers that scaled the Redan ; 
Truculent housemaids and bloodthirsty Quakers, 
Brave not the wrath of the sweet little man ! 

Yield him the sidewalk, ye nursery maidens ! 

Sauve 'i'ii i" nt ! Bridget, and right about ! Ann; — 
Fierce as a Bhark in a school of menhadens, 

See him advancing, the sweet little man ! 

When the red flails of the battle-field's threshers 
Beat out the continent's wheat from its bran, 

While the wind scatters the chaffy seceshers, 
What will become of our sweet little man I 

When the brown soldiers come back from the borders, 
J low will lie look while his features they scan i 

How will he feel when he gets marching orders, 
Signed by his lady love ! sweet little man ! 

• not for him, though the rebels expect him, — 
I. ■ : - too precious to shorten its span; 
Woman her broomstick shall raise to protect him, 
Will she not fight for the sweet little man ! 

Now then, nine cheers for the Stay-at-home Ranger! 

Blow the great fish-horn and beat the big pan ! 
First in the field that is farthest from danger, 

Take your white-feather plume, sweet little man ! 

3 c ; 6 VIVE LA FRANCE! 



September 25, 1S61. 

IIE land of sunshine and of & 
Her oame your hearts divine ; 
To her the banquet's vows bel« 

Whose breasts have poured its wine ; 
Our trusty friend, our true ally 

Through varied change and chance : 
So, till your flashing goblets high, — 
I give you, Vive la France! 

Above our hosts in triple folds 
The self-same colors Bpread, 

Where Valor's faithful arm upholds 

The blue, the white, the red ; 
Alike each nation's glittering CI 

Reflects the morning's glance, — 
Twin eagles, soaring cast and * 

< >nce more, thru, \'i\ 1. 1 v Fb ln< i I 

Si8ter in trial ! who shall count 

Thy generous friendship's claim, 
Whose blood ran mingling in the fount 

Thai gai e our laud its name, 
Til] JTorktown saw in blended Line 

( )ur conquering arms adi ance, 
And victory's double garlands twine 

( )ur banners ! Vive la ETb w< e ! 


land of heroes ! in our need 
One gift from Heaven we crave 

To standi these wounds that vainly bleed, — 

The wise to lead the brave! 
(all hack one Captain of thy past 

From glory's marble trance, 
Whose name shall he a bugle-blast 

To rouse us ! Vive la France ! 

Pluck Conde's baton from the trench, 

Wake up stout Charles Martel, 
Or find some woman's hand to clench 

The sword of La Pucelle ! 
Give us one hour of old Turenne, — 

One lift of Bayard's lance, — 
Nay, call Marengo's Chief again 

To lead us! Vive la France ! 

Ah, hush ! our welcome Guest shall hear 

But sounds of peace and joy; 
No angry echo vex thine ear, 

Fair Daughter of Savoy ! 
Once more ! the land of arms and arts, 

Of glory, -rare, romance; 
Her love lies warm in all our hearts : 

God bless her ! Vive la France ! 




IS midnight : through my troubled dream 

Loud wails the tempest's cry ; 
Before the gale, with tattered sail, 
A ship goes plunging by. 
What name'? Where hound.' — The rocks 
Repeat the loud halloo. [around 

— The good ship Union, Southward bound : 
God help her and her crew ! 

And is the old flag flying still 
That o'er your fathers flew, 

With hands of white and rosy light, 
And field of starry blue \ 

— Ay ! look aloft ! 'its folds full oft 
Have braved the roaring blast, 

And still shall fly when from the sky 
This black typhoon has past I 

Speak, pilot of the storm-tost bark! 
May 1 thy peril share ! 

— () Landsman, these arc fearful sea- 

The brave alone may dare ! 

— Nay, ruler of the rebel deep, 
\\ 'hat matters wind or wave ! 

The rocks that wreck your reeling deck 
Will leave me naught t<> Bave ! 

() landsman, ail thou false or true ' 
What Bign hast thou to Bhow / 

— The crimson Mains from loyal veins 
Thai hold my heart-blood'.- flow ! 


— Enough ! what more shall honor claim ! 
I know the sacred sign ; 

Above thy head our flag shall spread, 
Our oeean path be thine ! 

The bark sails on ; the Pilgrim's Cape 

Lies low along her lee, 
Whose headland crooks its anchor-flukes 

To lock the shore and sea. 
No treason here ! it cost too dear 

To win this barren realm ! 
And true and free the hands must be 

That hold the whaler's helm ! 

Still on ! Manhattan's narrowing bay 

\i> Rebel cruiser scars ; 
Her waters feel no pirate's keel 

That flaunts the fallen stars ! 

— Hut watch the light on yonder height, — 
Ay, pilot, have a care ! 

Some lingering cloud in mist may shroud 
The capes of Delaware ! 

Say, pilot, what this fort may be, 

Whose sentinels look down 
From moated walls that show the sea 

Their deep embrasures 5 frown'? 

The Rebel host claims all the coast, 

But these arc friends, we know, 
Whose footprints Bpoil the "sacred soil," 
And this is ' Fort Monroe! 

The breaker- roar, — how bears tin- shore ! 
— The traitorous wreckers' hand- 


Have quenched the blaze that poured its rays 

Along the Hatteras sands. 
— Ha! say not .so ! I sec its glow ! 

Again the shoals display 
The beacon light that Bhines by night, 

The Union Stars by day ! 

The good ship flies to milder skies, 

The wavu more gently flows, 
The softening breeze wafts o'er the sens 

The breath of Beaufort's rose. 
What fold is this the sweet winds kiss, 

Fair-striped and many-starred, 
Whose shadow palls these orphaned walls, 

The twins of Beauregard .' 

What ! heard yon not Port Royal's doom ? 

How the black war-ships came 
And turned the Beaufort roses 1 hlooni 

To redder wreaths of flame ' 

How from Rebellion's broken reed 

We Baw his emblem fall, 
As BOOH his cursed poison-weed 

Shall dr<»p from Sumter's wall ! 

On ! on ! Pulaski's iron hail 

Falls harmless on Tybee ! 
Her topsails feel the freshening irale, 

She BtrikeS the open >ea ; 
She rounds the point, she threads the keys 

That guard the Laud of Flower-, 
And rides at last when- firm and &Sl 

Her own ( ribraltar towers ! 


The good ship Union's voyage is o'er, 

A: anchor safe she swings, 
And loud and clear with cheer on cheer 

Her joyous welcome rings : 

Hurrah! Hurrah! it shakes the wave, 

It thunders on the shore, — 
( )ne flag, one land, one heart, one hand, 

One Nation, evermore ! 



x LAG of the heroes who left us their glory, 
jZ Borne through their battle-fields' tlum- 

.---■■■■-- o 

()P?Sw! &u aiu l flame, 

BS7QVI Blazoned in song and illumined in story, 
Wave o\r as all who inherit their fame ! 
Up with our banner bright, 
Sprinkled with starry light, 
Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore, 
While through the sounding sky 
Loud rings the Nation's cry, — 

Light of our firmament, guide of our Nation, 

Pride of her children, and honored afar, 
Let the wide beams of thy full constellation 
Scatter each cloud that would darken a star ! 
Op with our banner bright, etc. 


Empire unsceptred ! what foe shall assail thee. 

Bearing the standard of Liberty's van ! 
Think not the God of thy lathers' shall tail thee, 
Striving with men for the birthright of man ! 
Up with our banner bright, etc. 


Yet if, by madness and treachery blighted, 

Dawns the dark hour when the BWOrd thou must 
Then with the arms to thy millions united, 
Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and Law ! 
Up with our banner bright, etc. 

Lord of the Universe! shield us and guide US, 

Trusting thee always, through shadow and sun ! 
Thou hast united us, who shall divide ns ! 
Keep us, () keep us the Many in Onb 1 
Up with our banner bright. 
Sprinkled with starry light, 
Spread its fair emblems from mountain to .shore, 
While through the sounding sky 
Loud rings the Nation's cry, — 
l'\|(i\ LND LlBBBTl ! OnB i.\ ERMORE ! 

N O T K s 


N T E S . 

Note 1. Page 5. 
" Scenes of my youth." 

This poem was commenced a few months subsequently to 
the author's return to his native village, after an absence of 
nearly three years. 

Note 2. Page lp. 

A few lines, perhaps deficient in dignity, were introduced 
at this point, in delivering the poem, and are appended in 
this clandestine manner for the gratification of some of my 

How many a stanza, blushing like the rose, 
Would turn to fustian if resolved to prose ! 
How many an epic, like a gilded crown, 

me cold critic dared to melt it down, 
Poll in his crucible a shapeles- in 
A grain of gold-leaf to a pound of bra- 
Shorn of their plumes, oni moonstruck Bonnel 
Would seem but jackdaws croaking to the spheres ; 
Our gay Lotharios, with their Byron curl-. 
Would pine li - cheated of their pearls ! 

to the spei ■ i-" Bhade, 

If truth should miogle in the masquerade. 
- nalc creations pass, 

Off mini' at once tin- " Dearest " and " Alas : *' 
Crack go the lines and levers used t<> prop 

Top-heavy thoughts, and down at once th<>y drop. 

Flov- r.s creep for hours ; Low . shrieking for his dove, 

Finds not the solace that he Beeks — al 

4 o6 XOTES. 

Fast in the mire, through which in happier time 
He ambled dryshod on the stilts of rhyme. 
The prostrate poet finds at length a tongue 
To curse in prose the thankless stars he sung. 

And though, perchance, the haughty Muse it shames, 
How deep the magic of harmonious names ! 
How sure the story of romance to please, 
Whose rounded stanza ends with Heloisi 
How rich and full our intonations ride 
M On Torno's cliffs, or Painbamarca's side '" ! 
But were her name some vulgar " proper noun,*' 
And Pambamarca changed to Belchertown, 
She might be pilloried for her doubtful fame, 
And no enthusiast would arise to blame ; 
And he who outraged the poetic sense 
Might find a home at Belchertown's expense ! 

The harmless boys, scarce knowing right from wrong, 
"Who libel others and themselves in song, 
When their first pothooks of poetic rage 
Slant down the corners of an album's page, 
(Where crippled couplets spread their sprawling charms, 
As half-taught swimmers move their legs and arms,) 
Will talk of " Hesper on the brow of eve,'' 
And call their cousins " lovely Genevieve " ; — 
While thus transformed, each dear deluded maid. 
Pleased with herself in novel grace arrayed, 
Smiles on the Paris who has come to crown 
This new-born Helen in a gingham gown ! 

Note 8. Page 16. 
" Or gaze upon yon pillared stont ."' 
The tomb of the Vassall family la marked by a freestone 

tablet, supported by live pillars, and bearing nothing but the 
sculptured reliefs of the Col. let and the Sun, — Y<is Sol,— 

which designated a powerful family, now almost forgotten. 

The exile referred to in the next stanza was b native of 
Honfleur In Normaa I 

be \. Page 20. 
" Swept through the world tin war-i 
The music and words of the ManeUlee Hymn were com- 
posed in one night. 



Note 5. Page 20. 
" Our nation's anthem is a country dance .' " 
The popular air of " Yankee Doodle," like the dagger of 
Hudibras, serves a pacific as well as a martial purpose. 

Note 6. Page 21. 
11 The mast that Britain strove to bow in vain." 

The lyric which follows was printed in the " Boston Daily 
Advertiser," at the time when it was proposed to break up 
the frigate Constitution as unfit for service. 

Note 7. Page 26. 
C{ Bore Ever Ready, faithful to the last.''' 
" Semper paratus,'' 1 — a motto of the Revolutionary stand- 

Note 8. Page 30. 
" Tfioic calm, chaste scholar." 1 
Charles Chauncy Emerson; died May 9th, 1836. 

Note 9. Page 31. 
" And thou, dear friend." 
James Jackson, Jr., M. D. ; died March 29th, 1834. 

10. Pago 140. 
Q'ivi Tig (pvXXuv yiviv, <roiv\bi x.a) ocvtguv. — Iliad, VI. 146. 

Wesley quotes this line in his account of his early doubts 
and perplexities. See Southey's Life of Wesley, Vol. II. 
p. 185. 

1 16. 

The churches referred to in the lines which follow are, — 

1. M King'fl Chapel," the foundation of which Mas laid by 

nor Shirley in 1 J 

2. The church in Brattle Square, consecrated in 177;!. 
The completion of this edifice, the design of which included 
a spire, was prevented bj the troubles of the Revolution, 

408 NO TES. 

and its plain square tower presents nothing more attractive 
than a massive simplicity. In the front of this tower is 
still seen, half imbedded in the brick-work, a cannon-ball, 
which was thrown from the American fortifications at Cam- 
bridge, during the bombardment of the city, then occupied 
by the British troops. 

3. The •• Old South,'- first occupied for public worship in 

4. Park Street Church, built in 1809, the tall, white stee- 
ple of which is the most conspicuous of all the Boston 

5. Christ Church, opened for public worship in 1723, and 
containing a set of eight bells, the only chime in Boston. 

Note 12. Page 147. 

For the propriety of the term '• Celtic blackness,'' see 
Lawrence's Lectures, (Salem, 1S28.) pp. 462, 453. But the 
ancient Celts appear to have been a xanthous, or fair-haired 
race. See Frichard's Nat. Hist, of Man, (London, 1843.) 
pp. 183, 193. 

Note 13. Page 161. 

The name first given by the English to Boston was Tri- 
mountain. The three hills upon and around which the 
city is built are Beacon Hill, Fort Hill, and Copp's Hill. 

In the early records of the Colony, it is mentioned, under 

date of May 6th, 1685, thai " A BiACoa is to be set on the 

Sentry hill, at Boston, to give notice to the country of any 

danger; to be guarded by one man stationed near, and fired 

•asion may be." The last Beacon was blown down In 

of Fort Hill was former". • 1 cliff 

that s eem ed placed DJ nature in front of the entrance to the 
harbor for the purposes of defence, to which ir 
soon applied, and bom which it obtained Its p re s en t name " 
it- summit i- now i beautiful green enclosure. 
Oopp'a Hill was used ss ■ burial-ground from ■ very early 

N ' ' TES. 409 

period. The part of it employed for this purpose slopes 
rdfl the wat^r upon the northern side. From its many 
interesting records of the dead I select the following, -which 
may serve to show what kind of dust it holds. 

M Here lies buried in a 

Stone Grave 10 feet deep. 

Capt Daniel Malcolm Mercht 

Who departed this Life 

October 231, I 

Aged 44 years, 

a true son of Liberty. 

a Friend to the Publick, 

an Enemy to oppre-- 

and one of the foremost 

in opposing the Revenue Acts 

on America/" 

The gravestone from which I copied this inscription is 
bruised and splintered by the bullets of the British soldiers. 

Note 14. Page 107. 

The story of Sir Harry Frankland and Agnes Surraige is 
told in the ballad with a very strict adhesion to the f 
These were obtained from information afforded me by the 
r.-nd Mr. "Webster of Hopkinton, in company with 
whom I visited the Frankland Mansion in that town, then 
standing ; from a very interesting Memoir, by the Rever- 
end Elias Xason of Medford, not yet published ; and from 
the manuscript diary of Sir Harry, or more properh 
Charles Henry Frankland, now in the library of the 1 
mrhnnnttr Historical Society. 

At the time of the Red to, old Julia was living.* 

and on our return we called at the house where she resided. 
Dec account iff little more than paraphrased in the poem. 
If the ineldenta are treated with a certain liberality at the 
"f the fifth part, the essentia] fact thai icued 

Sir Harry from the ruins after the earthquake, and their 
juent in 1. may be accepted as literal 

* She is 1. : 961. 



truth. So with regard to most of the trifling details which 
are given ; they are taken from the record. 

It is to be hoped that the Reverend Mr. Nason's Memoir 
will be published, that this extraordinary romance of our 
sober New England life may become familiar to that class 
of readers who prefer a rigorous statement to an embel- 
lished narrative. It will be found to contain many histori- 
cal facts and allusions which add much to its romantic 

It is greatly to be regretted that the Frank land Mansion 
no longer exists. It was accidentally burned on the 23d 
of January, 1858, a year or two after the first sketch of this 
ballad was written. A visit to it was like stepping out of 
the century into the years before the Revolution. A new 
house, similar in plan and arrangements to the old one. httfl 
been built upon its site, and the terraces, the clump of box, 
and the lilacs, doubtless remain to bear witness to the truth 
of this story. 

Cambridge: Printed by Welch, Bigelow, I ( o. 



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By Tickxor and Fields. 15 

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